I Griot of the Hamitic Shrine

I, griot, of the Hamitic shrine I, oracle of the orisha's ebon throne I, child, of Melchizedek line I, olive tree in a desert sown Mantled in the robe of his grace Amid cherubic beasts all four Upon golden ground bend my face And felt his spirit in my core I, messenger, I, human I, frightened, shivering thing I, the image sculpted in his hand I, with longing for eagle's wing Voice of the voiceless let me speak Faith of the discourage, here, I kneel Ragged in sins and broken weak And still your anvil on me I feel