These psalms written on my skin
Tattoos, remind me of my kinsfolk
Midnight, the clock sounds its stroke
When everything slowly begins
To unravel, the world madly spins
In the blood, we are soaked
Of depravity, we are kings
We sing the psalms, the hymns
Tumble down the mountain
Thunder rumbles within
Street-prophets laugh, grin
Never getting out alive
Our society on the fringe
We arrive, survive
Redemption for our sins
These psalms written on my skin

(Photo by Eugene Chystiakov on Unsplash)