Art, poems and prose.


O' woe, woe unto you,
The offspring of earth. 
Beguile me not with death, 
O' mother of the sea. 
I have lived enough to see, 
The greatness of the light, 
And the horrors of the night. 

O' shut the mouth that begets misfortune. 
Who are you in the wonder of my power?
What do you posses? magic or sweet tune?
Shall i be drunk in the riddle of the Masters?
I shall not cringe nor cower, 
O' son that came out from my daughter's womb. 


Trick not the sage o' witch, 
I have seen the ivory of the ocean's bed. 
That lies in pebbles of the night,
And in divine grasses of the heaven's abode. 
What have you come to pluck from the garden of grace?
Where tulips and lilies of greatness are grown. 


O son, I am the fountain of waters, 
That knocks on rooftops and earth's soil, 
When all wonder about his glorious tidings.
O' hark, an eagle stray not to an unknown lair, 
Without a purpose and intent to fulfill. 


What shall come-out of a being? 
So cruel to nature?
That is the veil of darkness, 
Mother Nature is not blind. 
So is the guardian that protect her treasure, 
Trick me not, as the serpent tricks my fore bearers. 

Shall I use spells on you?
Or chants that summon the spirit from flesh?
O' miserable wizard,
That has not learn the old ways

O' woman, I have the knowledge of my ancestors,
That breed in the mind of my heart.
Your magic cannot hurt a guardian of nature
And I gladly bow to you to wander in wonder.

O' son, a lizard that falls from the top of an iroko tree,
Shall proudly praise himself,
If nobody wishes to praise him.
I have traveled over the seven moving mountains,
TO fulfill the request of the nine goddesses.
O' make way, for my anger is great to overcome.

O' sylph ,the truth is told.
I am the light of the two-noon.
I have the eyes of days and night.
I am the healer of the seven seas,
On which the mountains sit on.

Your words are words of men,
Like the etched marks,
On street that has no significance.
O' make way,
That i shall spare you.

O' mother ,o wench.
You shall live till day no longer speak.
Tarry, nor linger longer, not in this holy paradise.
Words can not fill a barrel;
But disappear with the breathing breeze
Leave o' leave to a land,
Where your name shall be praised.

When wind blows cold from behind,
That is when the fowl,
Knows his true friends.
I have your true visage
I see Death calling,
And you claim to be feasting on ancestral kolanuts.
O' my son, who does not know the rasp of reeds?
I shall spare you,
The cockerel must not be seen,
Without its feather.

O' witch O' woe unto you, 
There is only one good to the river-mussel.
There is only one life to a tortoise,
There is only one world to the spirit of our race.
It did not fall in the time of my fore-runners,
It shall not in my time.
O' Woman.

©Okunola Peace