Titan of the Aureole, whose scalp of frosted rime
Distills the pneuma from the parched, sub-Saharan clay,
He treads the liminal breach where gods and mortals fray,
A liturgist of justice, scoffing at the scythe of time.
From Idanre’s jagged spine to the Kaduna cage,
He brewed a lexis of steel, a syntax of the storm,
To shatter the monolithic mask, the tyrant’s form,
And ink the palimpsest of a nation’s nascent age.
O Ogun, blacksmith of the word, your scion stands,
Wrestling the polyphonic ghosts of a stolen tongue,
Where anagnorisis and hubris have fiercely clung.
With ebon pen, he charts the spirit’s shifting sands,
A maximalist sage in a world of stunted thought,
By whose tessellated vision our liberty is wrought
The Crucible of the Fourth Stage
Beyond the triple-tiered Yoruba sky,
Where the numen sleeps in a womb of stone,
He dares the transition, unmade and alone,
Where the ego’s integument must wither and die.
Not the Apollonian mask of serene repose,
But Dionysian frenzy, a wine-darkened flood,
Where the ichor of deities mingles with blood,
And the synecdoche of a nation’s spirit grows.
He is the Abiku—the child of repeat,
Defying the fetters, the charms, and the ash,
With a cadence that bites like a lightning flash.
The tyrants may posture in gilded deceit,
But his lexicon—dense as a forest of spears—
Is the talisman shielding our hope through the years.
No comments:
Post a Comment