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.