The beautiful ones are not yet born
The beets’ harmattan-spirit
We should wear
Ours’ have been a wasted propagation
With rotten fruits at the tree top
The beautiful ones are not yet born
What we see’s a lingering mirage
All we have had
Are crooked crew men
Sailing our ship as true captains
The beautiful ones are not yet born
Those ones devoid of dubious deeds;
Year in year out
This same melancholy song we sing
Of parasites and pest boring in
And harvesting from our ancestral pot
We cannot chortle with delight
We cannot be chirpy
Our hope’s now a scratched credo
Our sun have been charred
While we wait,
The death of the dim moon
And the return of the new dawn
Even those ones we call brothers
Have polluted our water with wastes
The chosen fledgling, are fickle prodigals
We rely not on them
Cos they are inert
They said they are the ones
To wipe the dropping dew
From our soggy eyes
But now we all know
That the beautiful ones are not yet born
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem