As father carried stones upon his head,
The headman, twirling his moustaches, used to say,’Hey Kisanya’
Let’s have a first rate lavni!
And my father would sing with his tattooed throat:
In his song
There was the moon, and the sun,
And flowers blossoming, sea-waves,
As impassioned girl drunk with love…
Sweat-stained hands clapped;
There was applause all round.
My father was touched, was filled with gratitude.
Walking home he groped towards the song of bread
That he never could sing.
Translated by Vilas Sarang