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Where the rivers of timeAre fouled by native stress and strife,And man becomes his own enemy,life is distraughtAnd its colorful scenesAre marred and stainedBy dark-brown blots of violent bloodLet's live in peace,For here, like tenantsIn thatched huts, we dwell;Soon, too soon, the tropic stormWill out-blow the flick'ring lightsof human life-Our huts will fallIn frailty upon the earthWhereon, they rot,And we, in foul disintegration,Will be identified-With dust.Michael Dei-Anang203

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