Not A Guest Like A Slave Poem by Zyw Zywa

The green banks where I played
I'm back, on my guard
The streets of my youth

I cry and hug
amma and my sisters
I won't leave here again

even if I have to fight for it
It's not in mý hand
to kill or to die

No longer can I be an exile
a polite guest conforming
like a slave

I'm back on my guard
in my own house, and you, brother

the oldest, you must be wiser
no king
can crown himself

at best he can be a servant