The fruit is a flawless Gold,
Hold to the brim, hoist for the world.
It’s a pretty personable purity.
Along the crescent, the moon is firm.
The children of this land are subsequent.
The need for fruits a better evolution,
The bloosom from the old flora.
Down stream to the peccable land,
The blossom is the Knight in shining armour.
The children of this land are the warriors.
Their Skins are gloomy but glimmering,
Infants are in the drink of virtuous,
Their hairs uncombed but well tidy.
With no treacherous value ,
The children of this land are the crowns.
The land’s axis is in heart of toddler,
The fresh breeze shall crowned in time
Ancestor’s past, present, future has no account,
In the fortress land of degeneracy.
The children of this land are the worriors.