B'éyìn jábó, omo inú è fóká....
I ran through the streets of sorrows to call on sons of joys,
my feet flow with blood but onlookers taste of it the sweetness of honey.
A cauldron in the icy home of a friendly witch,
she cooks with a deadly portion
but her name tells a tale of mercy.
How shall my feet shoot the goal that brings home the trophy,
yet within is a pain that screams as a loosers pipe?
He that murders a sleeping man,