Oh! Great sages of blema <br />here I come once again <br />my voice has gone blunt <br />and in need of whetting <br /> <br />I am going to the forge <br />to saddle my voice again <br />at the foot of the brook <br />where orchids hung from <br />the nooks of prehistoric oaks <br />to defy the baobab of the savannah <br /> <br />There is no propitiation here <br />but the invocation of the sages <br />here, your salt, honey, palm oil <br />cola nuts and cowries <br />I have not forgotten <br />to bring packages of tasseled lion hackles <br />I have once wrestled my gourd <br />from the whirlwind alone <br />and sustained a mortal scar <br />as a solitary stipple of prowess <br /> <br />I call on Tutu, I call Avakpe <br />Ayidzolu and Agbadzo <br />neither in distress nor for a war dance <br />but to guide me to the waterfall <br />at the sprawling foot of the rainbow <br />and help me catch the spray <br />from the eaves early at dawn <br /> <br />I am the great Hunnour <br />who does not initiate in the sacred Yeve <br />for when the head has gone awry <br />in the omega mood of astral trip <br />no priests can restore <br />but only by the wise gods of blema <br /> <br />That is why I set forth early <br />at dawn with the dews to wait <br />at the forge where only gods <br />and goddesses eat orchids for breakfast <br />and belch rose petals to soothe <br />the aching hollow heart of mankind<br /><br />Dela Bobobee<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-muses-3/
