I would have played the sweetest of tunes then for you
but boils erupted all over the lips of my flute
and malicious termites mangled its delicate throat
Santos, the song I had hoped to play for you
must await another season when these sobs that clog and choke my throat
these blocks that freeze my heart and voice
slowly clear up
in the season of waiting, dry and lean,
O very Santos,
Dimkpa asa,
only this pool of red tears is the voice of my song of sorrow.