While in the womb

of my mother, every

now and then, in the midst

of the _wemilere_ splendor,

the old Oweni spoke

through the thick thump thump of the drum.

His hoarse voice was heard

filled with many longings;

claiming,

urging his return. Desolated,

the fields had become, the grass.

How desperate the hunger of the wild beasts!