DƆTEƐ [DUST]

dust-to-the-face

Yaw yi tumi ma mete si abͻnten,

Na menenam rehwehwε fie kwan.

Ɛtͻ da a, mehua εho mpopoeε

Na mekͻn adͻ sε mεtene mensa asͻ mu;

Ɛbia na atwe me akͻ ͻhomeε mu.

Nanso ͻdͻ wͻ ahoͻden bi a

Ꜫboro me nteaseε so.

Ɔdͻ mma pεsεmenkomenya ho kwan;

Ɔgyina hͻ pintinn wͻ ne dabrε a

Hwee mpusu no,

Na me ne hwan na mahyε ne so?

Agye ͻno ara atwa n’ani abεhwε

Me a meretee so yi, na waka sε;

“Ah, ͻdͻ nso yε owuo”

Nti mεma neho kwan

Na mahwε deε ͻde me rekͻ

Ɛbia na deε εkyerε sε woasi

Fie kwan so no yε ͻyaw yi

A agye honam yi afa yi

Ɛfiri sε nokware no ne sε,

Ahomegyeε pono anim no,

Yεdane dͻteε.


This pain has me out roaming

 In frantic search of the way home

And sometimes I smell it near

And yearn to reach out and grab it;

Perhaps it would carry me into rest.

But love has a will

I cannot comprehend.

Love gives no room for selfishness;

She stands grounded in her place,

Unshaken by none.

Who am I to lord over her?

Unless she turns to look at

Me gasping for each breath, and says;

“Ah, I am death too.”

So I’d let her have her way

And see where she leads me.

Maybe what shows you are on

The road home is this pain

That racks my entire body.

Because truth is,

At the door of rest,

We turn to dust.

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