Poetic Expression of Heritage and Struggle

And forefathers of ours, known for glory in every

hard-fought battle.

And whoever asks about us, we are

bound to Timbuktu.

The desert’s scorching heat is shade to us, and its cold

is our remedy.

Sand dunes are our bed, and the folds

of the mountains are our courtyard. We delight in

the whistling wind there. Our life there is milk

and water.

We ride every camel or steed.

Our people’s wealth is camels and sheep.

We honor every guest who comes to us, and we give

even when giving is difficult.

We truly keep faith with a friend. And if he wrongs us,

we have pride.

From among us, the Liberation Front calls out. We are

a sacrifice for what will free you.

The doors of liberation are all locked,

and their keys are blood.

We will open them with bloodied hands, whatever

the price may be.

The vanguard leads them into resistance, supported

by God, as He wills.

God is greatest.

For the Blacks have no honor, and their pledges

and their breaking of them are the same. They will not trust what

they know among themselves, as they say, when the vessel overflows.

Their only concern is prostitution and a belly that may

be full.

They have tiger heads, but they are built

of flimsy paper.

Their soldiers are like glowing wood when they panic.

They will have compassion.

Away from us, you vile sons. You have no place in our desert

to stay.

In Timbuktu and its vast expanse, we refuse to let you remain.

God is greatest.

I have killed you all.