CHILDREN OF THE SUN -BY Ololade Akinlabi(Olholhadey)

                       (Traditional poetry)

Mama, tell tales to the ears that are deaf,

Vomit voices to the dumb minds

That we are the makers of the supreme

Scrubbed with charcoals, we are proud to be.

Mama, whisper to the empty space,

Spherical empty space called world;

That we are the children of a source

Traceable to traditions along the path of culture.

We are the genitals that sip palm from calabash,

Our fashions are designed in Agbada, Kenbe.

We don't sell our pride but we collect grants for virginity,

We dwell in village, in peaceful cohabitation.

Ye! We are the sons of the sun that burns our skins 

On farmlands where nightingale sings into our ears.

The moon sheds light to our gathering at night

As granny tells stories of tortoise and folks.

We cannot read the unjust words in ink

But can fathom the just words in instinct

Unjust laws are just in black ink

The imported books called norms.

*Agbada* and *Kenbe*- Yoruba cultural dress

Ololade Akinlabi(Olholhadey)

© 2016

Title- Children of the sun.