The buruuje of the Maasina (similar to the llanto of the Spanish) is the dirge for the dead or the one who will die in battle. It is generally spontaneous, improvised and is supposed to encourage the warriors, or to praise the ones who fell in battle.

A lot of emotions are conveyed in this funeral oration, that I translated from French (which is a translation from Fulani). Enjoy

The day when the war horns will be blown,
The day when the great drums of the chiefs will be beaten,
The day when the wailing of the mourners will reach the sky,
When the bridles will be held,
And young people girded,
When their left hand will hold the reins
And their right hand, the swords. That day! (Nyande nden).

The groom will dine of a handful,
And the horses, of their bits.
The valiant, of a kola nut,
And the coward, of his apprehensions.

By God, if the Incomparable is slain,
His mother cries, behind the house,
His father will cry, stroking his beard
Adults will weep, beating their chest.
.And we see the wounded drag the dead


The black horse has its rump soaked
With the sweat of the jealous, maddened.
He is as soaked as the tribune
Spears graze hair that have been let too long,
And if the bullet is lodged in the head
The glanders will spread to the brain.
The brave is not afraid of gunpowder and of burning,
The brave is not afraid to have his bones broken,
He does not fear bullets or wounds,
While the coward flees, cursing his mother
And will return only, protected by his talismans.
Oh see, those who fill the gaps are being felled
The time to polish one's spear is over!

Our left hand is the one for magnanimity
And our right is the one for the baskets (of kola nuts).
If our legs are made to the leathers,
Our feet are shaped for the stirrups.
I liked women, secret meetings,
The clash of bracelets and the shame of the night.
And I knew of to use my fingers
And how to argue with loincloths
Ô Shame! It is I who has been struck!

Do you know anything sadder
Than the death of a boy who was not sick,
Than the death of a foal that wasn't afflicted by flu?
There! There they are buried at the bottom of anthills,
With their feet, termites shall build mounds
And the bones of his hands will clap for this feat.
Behold, the male vulture is here
Followed by his female, hopping on the body
Of this boy that was not sick.
"Even if he did something wrong, it's a shame” she said,
"Was he struck by a spell? Or has he missed his thrust? " The male replied.
"Save us from evil!” He added:
"He's not a relative to us. A mere youngster, not your young man
Tear his nose, the stomach I will take!"
Let us tear with all our strength. Let his guts be spilled out! "

He was one of those gallant, favorites of the townsfolk
An accomplished young man, a learned one
Who haunted the streets where lovebirds used to meet?
And to whom ladies offered themselves with passion.

And that is all Wordo Guro has to say,
While Bamu's tale is worthless.
He does not know himself what he says: beware!
If he sacrifices himself for you host, he is stingy and hard.
He never knew how vulnerable he was.
We never had to cure him of a spear wound.
To extract pieces of flesh from his body
To no one, not even to himself, he has trust.

But I, I sing the praises of my Pullo!
And I will dye in dark the fingers of my Pullo.

Wow! Beautiful and rich. It evokes passion. It is a call to war and a celebration of courage and valour. It is also a call for sacrifice -- the supreme price --

The young men are not deterred by the end. The end of everything with termites or vultures tearing and dividing one up among themselves.

The young man only misses his secret dalliances with women. Yet he steps up to the plate.

DIKEnaWAR:
Wow! Beautiful and rich. It evokes passion. It is a call to war and a celebration of courage and valour. It is also a call for sacrifice -- the supreme price --

The young men are not deterred by the end. The end of everything with termites or vultures tearing and dividing one up among themselves.

The young man only misses his secret dalliances with women. Yet he steps up to the plate.

I cannot stop thinking of this lamentation. Very eery, sad yet beautiful. Dying when one's at the zenith of his abilities, what a glorious end and yet what a sad fate.

.

In the Fulani culture, poetry has always been important, and sometimes it is taken from Song. In just about every Fulani poem, it is always about Love, Bravery, being strong, etc. etc.

Thank you GorkoSusaay

Fulaman198:
In the Fulani culture, poetry has always been important, and sometimes it is taken from Song. In just about every Fulani poem, it is always about Love, Bravery, being strong, etc. etc.

Thank you GorkoSusaay

Indeed. Poetry is central to the Fulani culture. Bravery, Love and Generosity are recurrent themes.
And most of the poems were improvised. In a moment, a declamation about love, life, war would be made. I wish I had that talent