Ubayo is up with his stick by the ranch;
My shepherd boy, waiting on me while I sleep
Zealously waiting, singing his shepherd’s song.
Come Papa, the herd is waiting!
Look, let’s set out before the sun.
Mutu, please get up; others are standing
Be strong, we shall climb mountains today.
I heard him drool in dreams last night:
‘Ah, Mutu, this way, not that way,
You will be hurt Mutu, if you leap that way,
Would you talk to me if I were like you?’
Mutu is a jovial, galloping white calf.
‘Could you please talk to me?’ Ubayo often pleads
‘Say something at least, please do not moo.’
Mutu, I conceive, obliges Ubayo oftentimes.
But before the sun beams her rays in the field,
Ubayo’s stick and head have fallen in exhaustion;
This is how we shepherd our herd,
Ubayo on my shoulder, my wearied self behind the flock.
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