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