They stand at the grave,

these men with fat stomachs,

these men who once spat on his name,

now singing praises with trembling lips!

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They beat the drums—boom, boom, boom—

calling him the great one,

the one who walked with the ancestors,

the one who never stumbled!

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Oh, my people!

Where was this greatness

when he walked barefoot in the dust?

Where were these songs

when his belly was empty?

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A man’s death is a sieve—

the holes are small,

only the clean water passes through!

The poison is left behind,

the bitter leaf is thrown away.

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Truth?

Truth is a lazy dog

that only barks when the master calls!

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Tell me, oh wise elders,

if he was so great,

why did you not dance for him when he lived?

Why did you not carry him on your shoulders

before the worms claimed him?

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The dead man is now a god,

but when he was living,

he was a fool to you all!

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Boom, boom, boom!

Dance for him now!

Sing your polished lies!

But the ancestors know,

the river knows,

the wind knows—

and the dead man himself laughs in his grave.