The perfectly drawn of France’s curve,
To light up the oval kingdom,
Host to my adoration;
Your smile.
Your sharp and cat-ed eyes,
Mild in sight, but stout in mind,
My seer of all that is beautiful
Good and worthy.
Hair, as the sunrise flow of the Lake of Bagauda.
Her, the apex of beauty known of fulfude’s Sub-Sahara;
Heir of the throne, whose queen I stare – behold –
The perfection of each nuance in crystal unfold.
While warring warriors of your empire fight,
The good fight to save your ‘damawa land,
That spills innocent blood and tears of aged mothers –
Then, that curve of France returns to abide hope to troubled minds.
Who can touch the sky and sieve it in hand?
Or dare to pluck a star and love it in dern?
Can I, to the Blessing of Isaac dare a’ pinch?
Tone of golden ebony.
goddess. is Kidati.