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-.