Their cajoling voices are heard everywhere:

Marriages, baby-naming, funerals;

They sing the only songs pleasing to us

They sing our songs,

Songs about our lost heroes and lineages.

They sing everywhere and about everyone

But today they are silent about others:

They are never heard talking about the

Daylight murders or the endless thefts

They are mute about the decaying economy,

The paralyzed state,

Or the advent poverty marring us.

They are different from us, writers,

Because our inks can never dry out

When one of us is struck down

Another pen reincarnates

Though our lives are not always fully lived through the brutalities,

They should know that our breathes will forever flourish;

Whenever the lies and cruelties continue,

Our inks will keep oozing the bitter truth.

Mates, if we are unwilling to die for those we love, and what we believe

Our rotten state will never rejuvenate

You are doing the living but we will do the dying, dear brothers;

The one thing in our midst is the constant closeness of death

But the djalis never sing about it,

They remain mute and death grows on our heads like thick fog,

This fog constantly hangs over us and when will it fade away,

We are tired of not seeing the sunny days and starry nights we had,

Because the thick fog continually knocks on all doors

And no one is ready to speak about it,

But let the interpreters know that being silent can’t safe them

Because the next fog might fall on their roofs.

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