There are words, loads of them in my country,
Many cry them, some prophesy them!
The powers, they curse and become angry
Our countenance, they become solemn.
In my country, the children are born at night,
They cry and declare their burden!
We celebrate their coming with drums and a fight
And the baby’s crib, it is stolen.
In my country, the people, they are common.
They offer their lives to chief of the clan;
He brought a scarf, a staff and a tall summon
And stole our goose from inside the barn!
In my country, the chief has a servant, the law.
The courts, they launder his dirty coats.
The commons have nothing of the lots, of the draws;
The goose in the barn is carted away in a boat.
In my country, the one goes to the physician
His teeth are taken, his bones broken!
Another goes, with his dead, to the mortician
And his dead, its coffin is stolen!
In my country, a husband is weak, ill, sick:
The wife, she fights for the stove,
The children struggle over his walking stick,
They force him to dig his grave!
In my country, we worship the gods,
Fatten the priest at the altar,
Gather the pigs, chase the goats, offer the dogs
And tear down the neighbor’s rafter!
In my country, when our neighbors travel
We sell their houses,
Make peace with their enemies, their devils
And steal their wives’ blouses!
In my country we say many words,
Preach in many tongues,
Steal from purses, vaults, drying boards
Even the sleepers, lose their bunks!
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.