Dausi makes the heroes famous!
Dausi will outlast the nations.
Oh Jerra! Oh Agada, Ganna, Silla! Oh Fasa!”

Prince Gassire went back to the old sage and spoke to him: “Kiekorro! I went into the bush and heard the woodcock singing.  I heard the great Dausi.  Is it true that the Dausi will live longer than the great kings and heroes of the present?” The old sage spoke: “Prince Gassire, you are driving yourself toward your death.  No one can stop you.  Since you cannot become a king, you will have to be a bard.  When the kings of Fasa still lived on the seacoast, they too were great heroes, and their bards already sang the Dausi to the sound of the lute.  The heroes fought in daytime, the bards sang at night, at suppertime near the fireplace.  They were too old to fight.  Now, Gassire, you will want to be a bard since you cannot be a king.  That is the reason Wagadu will be lost!”  Gassire spoke: “So be it!”

Oh Jerra! Agada, Ganna, Silla! Oh Fasa!

Gassire went to the instrument maker and said, “Make me a lute.”  The artisan replied, “I will, Prince, but it will not sing.”  “Make it all the same,” Gassire ordered.

When the lute was ready, the prince came and struck the strings.  There was no sound.  The lute had no voice.  “What is this?” asked the prince, “I cannot hear its voice.  Make it sing!”

“I cannot make it sing, Prince.  I have done what I could.   It is the best lute I ever made.  But only you can make it sing.  It is only wood.  You have to carry it over your shoulder while riding into battle.  It has no heart.  You must give it your heart.  It has not tasted blood yet.  It has to drink dripping blood.  Only then will it live.  And only living beings have voices.  Blood from your blood, breath from your breath.  The lute has to hear the cries of battle, the rattle of dying voices.  The wood is like the tree it was made of; it only rustles when the wind moves it.  The lute will sing when your spirit moves it, when your heart is wounded.  The blood that comes from your heart will make the lute a member of your family.  Then the voice of your heart, fed by its blood, will live and give the lute a voice! Alas! In that time Wagadu will be lost.

Oh Jerra! Oh Agada, Ganna, Silla! Oh Fasa!”

Gassire spoke: “So be it!”  He went and called his eight sons and spoke to them: “My sons, today we will ride into battle.