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
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