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Bàbá,
what eyes do you have of a big bigger sort,
which portaled my entryway into the blindnesses of our Ilé,
wherefrom I made to look to see with your primordial eyes?

Bàbá,
why is your soul watery,
salty like the tears of baba nlá bàbá àgbà’s father:
he took his death by the hand,
and didn't let it die cheap!

Bàbá,
stream of my consciousness,
transfused like forced labour into the nerves of my armory,
ready with iron fire and thunder, ready with my fight for their fight, fist for fist.

My irin ajo is now steeped with the signposts of the visions I saw in your eyes.

Give me the feet of water when my irin ajo is on water;
give me the wings of af?´f?´ when my irin ajo is beyond this il?;
give me the stride of love when my irin ajo crosses the paths of good men;
my children are at hand;
they come like freedom, up my soul and down my eyes:
omijé, running from the stories of the barreled gun,
from the mirrors that cursed our reflection with greed...

my children are coming,
free, and towards freedom.

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