When the white cloth of heaven first unfurled,
And chaos stirred within the primal mist,
One stood beside the Maker of the world,
To write the laws that time could not resist.
Great Ọ̀rúnmìlà, with the opele chain,
You read the patterns in the dusty tray;
The secret maps of pleasure and of pain,
That every soul must travel on its way.
You do not change the fate the head has chosen,
But light the lamp so we might see the road;
To melt the paths that arrogance has frozen,
And ease the weight of every heavy load.
The palm nuts click, the wisdom starts to bloom,
A steady light within the crowded room.
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