Mothers of my great forefathers,
Birds with untouchable feathers,
Fire that burn water to ashes,
choir with soprano of lances,
pots of porridge of punishment of poverty ,
barrel of barley of barrenness of baby.
Am I not of your offspring?
Was I not washed in your spring?
Did I not suck from your sweet breast?
Why then plan for me to kick the bucket?
Did I not get from you this tribal mark?
Will you now disown your living track?
People of the house, beg my mothers,
mad crowd of the market, beg my mothers,
I lived in the longitude of their wrappers,
I wrote their words in dark papers,
Am I now to be a fried lap of turkey in their mouth?
Am I to be seen with my bald head as they remove my cap?
Oh clay pot, the father of kitchenware,
Oh vulture, the mother of ghostly fear,
Oh mountains with stiff spinal chord,
Oh fountain with cliff splashing water to water god.
Prostate with me to beg the anger of mothers,
to melt, become warm, like body in a sweater.
Mothers, are you not a tenfold of wrath?
Are you not a trillion of mercy grass?
How beautiful, the deadly gap of your teeth!
when mercy flash with thunder of smiles from your heartbeat,
to a child you so love, with a love, scarce in the market,
Love me, let me be that child, do not beat me with your belt,
Love me, nurture me, let me grow in your immortal care,
Love me, feed me, let me be the pawpaw of your eyes,
Let me be the orange of your far-seeing eyes,
I am your son, let me fly, be untouchable in the skies.