I will write a song on the wings of a fly
Let the song make music when the fly flies, let many hear it
Poetry of rubbish will be sung
On the wounds of farmers
And pus that is their sweat.
I will write on the wings of insects
All that fly
On the stripes of a zebra
And the big ears of an elephant.
On the walls in toilets, offices, classrooms,
On the roof of houses, walls of the State House,
And on the kangas and t-shirts.
I will write this song:
This year's floods
Threaten old houses in the valley.
People in them have started to move out
And the electric poles have fallen down.
Where there was light, now darkness.
Floods of this year!
An old tree is lying next to
Our rickety houses.
When strong wind blows, we do not sleep.
Every day we look at its roots
And its position, and rickety walls of the house.
It has to be cut from the branches to the trunk
This year's floods give a warning...
We shall remain to tell the grandchildren:
That year of floods
Many old trees fell down.
This year's floods!
Many will be destroyed.