Gedicht
Toyin Adewale
olayimika
olayimika
olayimika
Song of a first born daughterto the beats of gangan
I am the first fruit of your loins.
Seasoned with grace.
Seasoned with salt.
I stride to drumbeats.
Flywhisks attend my hands.
Like anklets of brass, joy encircles.
I am the consolation,
born for the day of affliction.
I am the vigour,
the virgin seed,
roosting under coverlets of aso-oke.
Down the winding road,
I nurture the handkerchiefs
for champions who cry...
Behold the daughter,
your blessed harvest.
Your basket of plump yams.
Your scented one.
© 2001, Toyin Adewale
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olayimika
Song of a first born daughterto the beats of gangan
I am the first fruit of your loins.
Seasoned with grace.
Seasoned with salt.
I stride to drumbeats.
Flywhisks attend my hands.
Like anklets of brass, joy encircles.
I am the consolation,
born for the day of affliction.
I am the vigour,
the virgin seed,
roosting under coverlets of aso-oke.
Down the winding road,
I nurture the handkerchiefs
for champions who cry...
Behold the daughter,
your blessed harvest.
Your basket of plump yams.
Your scented one.
olayimika
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