Lift the bowl with burnt out wood,
pick the fronds of the of palm to sweep
for Bari; your God will not visit
no, not a dirty householf
the angels bearing seed will repel
lift the bowl, wipe the floor
keep ready my child. Be ready.
I have called, the angels come
see them carry babies beautiful.
Which do you desire?
She who sticks her fingers between her lips
Or he who shrieks in your face, “feed me”.
They nod at me, I see them
acknowledging the spittle in my beard
the red blood of the hen on my white clothe
they come on the wings is the rain
hear their footstep in your thatch.
Prepare for children
Prepare for fruits
your tears are ended,
as with my coming–
even with their coming, prepare.