A lust to fly has betrayed us again,
The better part of us has been smashed,
Broken, painfully twisted and torn aside,
Our tears are songs for the beggars;
To drink wine
and mourn in stupor.

The tales of the Iroko,
Seeks many version,
We seek a name,
We demand a color,
A reason to talk
Oh!!! Who will shoot the gun when we die,
The drunk old talking drum demands,
Who cover our dry sagging breast
When we sleep.

Witches, we hear in our sleep
The haunting osu of the past.