Our hands wriggle in a crazed dance with fate while our fathers' belly's past gluttony hisses at misfortune's coming diarrhea. At his table, they dined desperately, –Jahanaam's horned King with spoons shorter than lashes in the eyes of babies. Whoring their rotting teeth into shiny soft fruits and leaving on our buds, tastes, cringing and sour. Under the billowing tree, towering over their graves, We'll question what sins our heads have against God to have subjected us to this cruelly father-made fate. If only they could hear our whispering, if only they could hear us pray.