Revolutionist
Ardent his eyes
Fire of poverty and injustice
Burn his state
Eagers to change
With his words the thoughts
With his thoughts the world
In which the brisk naught
The antiworld
Yet his folk are busy
In chase of bread
No time to breathe
No time to dream
No time to mind
Their misery, their state
Yet His fire is too ideal
Too old… too late
To awake the dead
In vain
He flames the road
For the blinds to chase
For the veils to raise aloft
No hope
But for that Coming
Our hope resides.
S.C.P.BIBA
So-called Poetry of Biba 