Zywa
Not a guest like a slave
I'm back, on my guard
in the streets of my youth
and the crying embrace
of amma and my sisters
on the banks where I've played
I won't leave here again
even if I have to fight for it
It is not in my hand
to die or to kill
No longer can I be an exile
a polite guest conforming
like a slave
I'm back, on my guard
in my own house, and you, brother
the oldest, you must be wiser
No king
can crown himself
at most he can be a servant
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