From now on the singing of our swords will be heard by generations yet unborn. Our deeds will be immortal!” He took his eldest son into battle with him.  Soon they were surrounded by eight Burdama.  Gassire killed four of them in a furious rage.  His son killed one.  Then another came, and another.  They stuck their spears into the young warrior’s heart, and he died.  Gassire, enraged, killed all the others.  The Burdama fled, believing they had seen an evil spirit.  Gassire dismounted and took the body of his fallen son into his arms.  He carried him home, his eldest, over his shoulder, so that the youth’s blood flowed over the lute.  The women of Wagadu wailed and lamented for the young prince who had died.  But the lute had no voice yet.  It took more sacrifices than one firstborn.  Moreover, rage does not make the lute sing, but something else does, something quite different.  Oh Jerra! There is mourning everywhere! Oh Agada, Ganna, Silla! Oh Fasa!

Cast out of the city, Gassire finally hears the mournful lament of his lute.

The eldest son of Prince Gassire was buried, but the next day Gassire called his seven remaining sons and told them: “Tomorrow we will ride against the Burdama.”  Seven days in succession Gassire rode into battle.  Each morning one of his sons accompanied him.  The second son was stabbed by three enemies in the heart, the third by four, the fourth by five, the fifth by six, the sixth by seven, the seventh by eight.  Each time Gassire, fighting like a demon, defeated the Burdama, killing hundreds of them.  But each morning they came back in greater numbers, for the Burdama were like rats breeding in all the dunghills.  After each battle Gassire carried home one of his sons—young, handsome, dead—and each evening the blood of one of his sons dripped down onto the new lute.  Jerra mourned for the many young men who had been slain in battle.  Every family mourned a warrior, strong in the morning, dead at night.

And so the men of Jerra grew sick of warfare.  They went to Gassire and spoke to him:  “Prince, we do not want you to be our king.  We want peace, not fame.  We prefer a quiet life to this endless fighting.  Go! Take your one remaining son and take your wives and concubines.  Take your cattle, goats, and horses.  Take your servants and retainers.  Take your friends, your warrior comrades.  Go and leave our peaceful city.”  The old sage’s warning fell on deaf ears:  “Thus Wagadu will be lost for the first time.  Oh Gassire!  Oh people of Jerra!

Oh Agada, Ganna, Silla! Oh Fasa!”