The harmattan here is filled with rain
The night has come with radiant sun
And the dawn refuses, in fear of pain
And fowls at night do play with guns ...
Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
'Not to die on the straw at home.
Those hands to close these eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.
... Read complete poem
