When the sun has gone
Their women will now bring
Sliced okro to dry;
Where is the sun?
They will tremble and ask
But they will rejoice at the freedom
To come out at all.
For me I will love to go prison
If I was there
In the briefness of my beard
And this I confess.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem