Woman, light the clear oil-lamp, where the ancestors gathered around may talk as parents talk when the childens are put to bed
Listen to the voice of the ancients of Elissa. Exiled like us They have never wanted to die, to les the torrens of their see he lost in the sands.
Let me listen in the smoke but where there comes a glimpse of the friendly spirits My head on your bosom warm like a dang smoking from the fire, Let me breathe the smell of our Dead, gather and speak out again their living voice, learn to
Live before I go down, deeper than diver, into the high profundities of sleep.