SOLANGE MARISA HAIVETA METTA
Oh! Kneel at the feet of this son
Of shrouded mountain rages
And deep, misty valleys
Make a pathway for this son
Yodel to mountaintops of faraway tribes
Tell them, He cometh!
O’Kneel at the feet of this man!
Whose blood mixes with white clay
Whose mama is resilient as the earth she was borne to toil
From obscurity to the stages of the world
He places his feet without fear
On his shoulder a thousand tribes he bears
In his palms, seven million souls rest their dreams
Will He endure the turbulent political tides?
Will He fasten the cords of corrupted foes?
Will He be the light in the corridors of the Tambaran?
Will He be the face of sweeping changes?
O’Kneel at the feet of this obscure boy!
Bring plumes to his head
Spread lies in his path
For he cometh! O’Neill!