They pry on the faithful,
you know them.
They are the players of the atunpan of ignorance
As you, your children, unborn generation dance to it.
Dry as the leaves hanging on the tree,
so they drain you of your african soul.
But still our common sense are soaked,
potholed and polished with a fiber of dainty
custom of ignorance.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem