Slowly, he treads back home, the luckless hunter;
Empty handed, he looks down in shame
For by the gate his wife awaits him, arms asunder
Praying he has, for the children, meat from game.
Faintly, he casts his eye in every anthill, every cave
Perhaps he finds a rabbit or just even a squirrel
Anything to cure what the family craves
But finds nothing to save him from a quarrel.
Though the journey back home now seems too short
It was only yesterday when he thought it long
Carrying a gazelle, he knew she'd praise his forte
But today for the warrior, she sings no song.
From afar she spots him staggering towards home
And with open arms hastens to meet her hero
But soon folds on seeing he is on his own,
A gallant whose load is just a bow and an arrow.
On this hunt the heavens haven't given any luck
That's why on his shoulders you see no buck
But open up your arms and warmly embrace him
For every day he labours just to satisfy your dream
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem