The HARMATTAN
It is this wind which leaves the mountains
And which dries the loincloths
It arrives of the Sahélien desert
While passing the Atakoriens mounts
It blows only in one direction
Towards South-west leaving the North-East
And destroying all on its dense passage
As with the European Middle Ages, the plague
But it shows us the end of work
That during months our tauraux
Carried out in the various fields
Under the sun and the rain with the songs
Grouped men, women and children
Under the rôniers with drinks
Everyone could be burst
It was the festival at the village, that of the harvests
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