Peter loves me but he is deaf mute;
He has no coin but he is rich in love.
Although he can’t hear, he plays a flute,
He plays it to prove me his brotherly love,
A love that is tasty like a grapefruit,
A love that has the beauty of a dove,
A love that exemplifies good repute,
And a love that is not self-love.
Atlas! The day my brother was crying,
I felt like one touched by Ebola fever,
Like one whose soul is in hell flying,
Flying as though an African weaver-.