When the desires of your people were spiritually guided,
Were the rains erratic as of the day?
You nourished years of swelling baskets
You spread the love to your descendants
That brought envy to the West
Who regarded our ancestral spirits as the worst
As many were still in arms of Morpheus
Despite the nation moulting its skin for many rains.
I raise the white flag to the deities of fiends
For Makewana, Chipoka wawoli and Namarohi legacy,
Are now dead and buried.

We still shed tears for the rains
The very rains that brought a glimmer of hope
To the barren soils and resurrected dead vegetation
As I deliver this heart-rending panegyric
I still wail for our true son Steve Chimombo:
You departed before a mission accomplished
You were about to visit Thunga the python
And explore the subtlety of our Sapitwa ancestors
And taste the free delicious food they readily prepared
And with your sword pounce on the stubborn lost fiends
Whose kinsmen ruthlessly corrupt our natural soils
And with their fumes made the rains cling to the skies
The psychic prowess of Thunga the python now enfeebled.
Frail like marionette has become
Its legacy expunged for the view of posterity.

I come today to convey my eulogy belated and forgotten
For the day you were placed six feet down, I was a being imaginary
As I ramble towards Msinja, I attest to the sacred pool
Our adored prophetess made the water sprinkle
To revive the dry barren soils
Whose proceeds filled up famished wombs.
Wherever your chi dwell in that mystical abode above
And as you eavesdrop to the howl of your abandoned progenies
Hurl us down the keys to unlock the pangs of hunger.