Here's a preaching to the son,
who neglected gray-hairs that toiled in rain and sun,
Praying and begging to set your light on hills,
they had no clothes or shining jewels.
There's mystery behind old rags,
Like togs they were,
Sun and rain trounced 'em hard,
While tilling ground to bring forth greens
On your wooden table.
White hairs are unbearable results,
Not dyed or colored but reproaches
And scorn paid to 'em,
While breaking rock for pure honey
To modify your sulphurous future.
Midnight can testify their blistering tears
Which their pillow and bedclothes sucked
like newborn baby — Is it the words of men or living?
No! hot tears of how your future will glitters,
Even when they're in resting in grave.
But here you are,
Your tree is bringing bountiful fruits,
While some are full of greens, others dried up.
Yet you care not for the old rags that
Watered and fertilized your tree from
Seeding.
You give to those don't who plant,
neither did they nurtured you,
Yet they plucked without stress,
Your doom day is drawing nigh.
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