My Lyre Don Tune to Cry
Now the pikin dem of men wey im no go even trust to watch im sheepdogs, dem don make am their song and dey spit for im face. Im bones dey burn for night. Im talk say our Papa don throw am inside mud and dey answer im cry with just stare.
30 1"But now, di people wey younger pass me dey laugh me—people wey I for no gree make dem papa join di dogs wey dey mind my sheep. 2Wetin di strength of dem hand for do me? Dem power don finish. 3Poverty and hunger don dry dem body, dem dey chop di dry ground for di darkness of waste and desolation. 4Dem dey pluck salt-leaf for inside bush, and di root of di broom tree na im be dem food. a a v4 Salt-leaf and broom tree na small-small desert plant wey no get value — na di last food wey person wey no get anytin at all dey chop. 5Dem drive dem comot from where people dey; people dey shout after dem as if dem be thief. 6Na inside di gully of dry riverbed dem suppose live, inside hole for ground and inside rock. 7For inside bush dem dey cry like donkey; under di prickly weed dem dey gada demselves. 8Foolish people wey no get name, dem drive dem comot from di land.
9"And now I don turn di song wey dem dey use take laugh me; I be somtin wey dem dey mock. 10Dem hate me and dey stay far from me; dem no dey hold body from spitting for my face. 11Because God don loose my bow string and bring me low, dem don throway all shame for my front. 12For my right hand di wayward people dey rise up; dem dey push my leg comot and dem dey build dem war ramp of ruin against me. 13Dem dey tear my road; dem dey gain from my trouble, and nobody dey hold dem back. 14Dem dey come like say dem pass through wide broken wall; for inside di crash dem dey rush enter. 15Fear-fear tins don loose against me; dem don chase my honor comot like wind, and my better life don pass like cloud.
16"And now my life dey pour comot inside me; days of suffering don grab me. 17For night my bones dey pierce through, and di pain wey dey chop me no dey rest. 18With plenty force my cloth dey twist; e dey tie me tight like di neck of my shirt. 19Our Papa don throw me inside mud, and I don turn like dust and ashes.
20"I dey cry to you for help, but you no dey answer me; I stand up, and na only stare you dey stare me. 21You don turn wicked to me; with di strength of your hand you dey attack me. 22You lift me up go di wind and make me ride am; you dey shake me anyhow inside di roar of di storm. 23Because I know say you go bring me down go death, go di house wey dem set for all di living.
24"But no be say person dey stretch out hand from di ruins, or dey cry for help for im disaster? 25No be me cry for di one wey im day hard? No be my soul dey pain for di people wey dey need? 26But when I dey hope for good, na evil come; when I dey wait for light, na darkness fall. 27My inside dey turn-turn and e no gree quiet; days of suffering don meet me face to face. 28I dey waka with black body, but no be sun do am; I dey stand up for inside di gathering and I dey cry for help. 29I don turn brother to jackals and companion to ostriches. 30My skin dey turn black and dey peel comot from me, and my bones dey burn with fever. 31My lyre don tune to cry, and my flute to di sound of weeping."
