Come, Dambala, come draw your trail in the sand I want to read you between the hills on which we live come, eat the eggs, Papa, come the blue and the brown ones We are green from the weeds from the deep sea, we are red from the blood that flows the white people don't go to the black heaven and there is no hell There is only the fire and the earth to consume their corpses and to honour you with their scent of decay the sacrifice of their sins come, Dambala, come |