Five hundred soldiers,
Coming to slay us like hungry lions.
A ten feet tall wall,
Surrounds the city with an unguarded gate.
Twenty-eight hundred preys,
Calm and relaxed.
A prey stands,
Blows a horn,
Five hundred soldiers,
Now do the conga.
Jingling a calabash full of coweries,
The soldiers turn against themselves.
African Magic
Nothing beats it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
i enjoyed this no doubt Dave; nice one,10