A broken calabash at the hill top of filth,

Alone outside the domain of the precious:

Caused by the sun and rain, night and day,

Gradually, she’s fading into the consuming earth.

What is she good for?

She had lost her space in nature;

She can no longer stand beside ornaments,

Never to hold water or palm wine anymore,

Neither can she be mended.

He that knows how to wash his hand clean,

Will dine and wine before kings.

Only the child with an open arm:

Can be gladly lifted up by he who cares.

Judas glory can’t be restored,

Peter’s destiny can’t be altered.

The ears takes over when the eyes is down.

Nothing complements the head when it is cut off.

It can be glued together to form a whole,

The mark does still remains.

A broken calabash can’t be mended.