Translated from the Amharic by Heywot Tadesse and Chris Beckett

I am a churchgoer in Lalibela, pilgrim to the tomb of Sheikh Hussein in Balé,
a man showered with blessings by the Abba Goda as I water my camels,
one who receives my Rizk in Mecca, and the nephew of Burjo in Hamer.
I am always rich because God loves me. I earn exactly what I deserve.
Nobody denies me what is mine. I do not take from anyone unless they take from me.
I celebrate New Year with Chambalala of Sidama and Giyta of the Wolayita,
as well as in Saint John’s in Addis Ababa, marking Advent down the ages.
In my totality, I am invincible. In my parts, incorruptible.

                                             Who am I?

I live in the mist and frost of Sannete, the ice cap of Mount Dashen.
I walk the dust storms of Dollo Mena and the lava soup of Dallol.
I raise my cow in Yirgalem and mate her in Wollega, truss and milk her
and taste the first cup of her milk in Axum, and with this northern milk
I fill an Arsi chocho to the brim and churn it in Gambella, before I rush
across to Harar to anoint a famous beauty with the butter.

                                             Who am I?

Footloose as a grasshopper, I spring up in the air when you think I’m dead,
...