You lady so bewitching, is your charm,
You lady, disarmed is me, your arrow, my heart is struck
As weaver birds do their houses, on tree tops
As ants make, colonies, for their queens,
As my ancestors, spear in blood they had dipped,
That, their grand sons, would build houses, for their loved ones
So, I'll build you a house, my queen,
Where my ancestors had pointed, with their walking sticks
A place with tall grass where marks were made with sticks
We'll watch the sunsets, and bless the rising moon.
I'll build you a house, my queen!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem