A Cloud in Pains
At the distant horizon,
Through a blanket of dark clouds ,
A sword of jagged blade pierces,
A blood of vague light,
Splashes across d skyline,
A halo of crimson,
Above the gently-serrated mountain peaks.
Again and again,
Without pity, the great sword slashed,
Through the dark and bulging belly of the clouds,
With a fierce fury of an angry mother hen, it struck;
The clouds cried out in pains,
With the agony of childbirth they cried,
The mountains shook and shivered,
In beautiful colours, their echoes splayed,
Across shimmering and glimmering lake waters.
Like a loaf, the clouds bulged,
They bulged and bulged and bulged.
Again the blade struck but could not cut,
Above, the gods were at war,
Sparks of dashing lights blazed above the clouds.
”It is time”, the earth told the Ìrókò tree,
It is time:
Time for the clouds to give birth,
Time for the earth to get wet,
Time for the soils to get set,
Time for Agùnmánìyè to get blessed.
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