A suicide none dare declare
Shàngó!
Where are your fiery eyes,
that spit fear into burning coal,
that blaze with warmth and glow,
a conflagrator dancing with flames?
Who dares invoke your name in sin,
and not have their tongue seared?
You summon thunder as a hound to hunt,
their wealth and souls it strikes at once,
swift as lightning no man can withstand.
You are a god with no patience,
a judge whose verdict is fire.
The guilty inherit their own shame,
terror grips their trembling mates,
till their fear spills water from their bladder.
Shàngó!
The king who hung himself–yet none dare say so.
Your name alone bends foes of Dàda,
your gentle, effeminate brother,
subduing armies without a clash,
a king great in life, even greater in death.
Your words are clothed in flame,
your breath consumes in thousands.
No scroll could ever disguise your greatness,
no fool could scorn your name
and escape the storm of your wrath.
And now, O thunderous king, hear me:
Unleash your fire on all my foes.
Shatter them into smouldering dust,
burn them in your raging inferno,
heap grief upon grief, lament on lament—
O king whose hanging none dare declare.
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