Lying on the foot of my decapitated hut
In pursuit of time,
Which did run fast.
Lo! There stood Dusogu our mother,
In a gown of sorrow,
And a head tie of worries.
‘What pressures thee mother? '
‘Can't you see?
My forest is fast becoming a desert.
Where are the suckers that would replace thee?
Who will be my eyes when I am long blind?
For the way they have taken to is not ours…
Will the drums ever sing my praise again?
I wish the flute will stop crying,
I really wish my flocks would turn a new leaf.'
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