There was down near the stream a hut
A little pot that lived in an old woman
Just under the big tree of a great oak
Facing the village but far from its face 
There lived an outcast, an old woman.
Old woman was a friend of mine
She would adorn her house with red mud
Humming sweet harmony of old hymns
She would look in my way and just wave
Down the stream, on the big rock I would sit.
I never had a chance to go and say hello 
I would make time to talk about her
To the same age that labelled her as hag
Some would tell tales of her from the village
But my eyes surpassed all that nonsense
After school, I would rush to grazing lands
To heard my father’s sheep to drink
As they quench my eye would look at her
Just up the stream picking firewoods
I never said a word, to an old woman.
Perhaps she had some asks about me
The tender age that marvelled at her sight
While my age is playing horse sticks
My eye stuck at her, the way no eye did
She would wave at me with no reply back.
Those empty waves were never vexatious 
For every time in my eye, she waved to me
This was indeed a friend of mine from afar
Maybe I reminded her of someone ages ago
Maybe she was thought of as granny to me
From a distance, I had a friend of mine
I would pass our sheep flock by her hut
I would smell spiced and roasted peanuts
I never helloed and asked for some
I was shy and maybe she was cautious too
Time has gone so much, so much changed 
We lost our sheep in hunger and drought
Dry the stream we used to water from
My age has given to maturity and time
Just under that great oak laid ruins
Time has taken so much and given also
But never an old woman’ friend of mine.