It ain’t, mere salt, but my sweat, I sell
At, 2 Cents, per pound, of, my misery
This Socialist State, ain’t, less than hell
Present seems, like a, myth of history!

Rosier, the blush, of the, bleeding sea
Higher, the gain, of the poor, salt-man
Those, who don’t, farm salt, here, go hungry.
Venezuela’s crude, no good, for my clan!

Oil riches, for rich, penury for poor
How could, this be, a Socialist heaven
Where existence, is, an endless war
Between, faith, fate, fear, and men!

Socialism, fails, yet, faith survives
Enduring, to the, breakdown’s brink
By the, tomb of dreams, a hope, still thrives
When, The Tide, Turns Pink!

© 2022 Vikas Chandra