Ìlù Àwọn Òkú

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Ogún parí, ṣ̣ùgbọ́n ẹ̀mí àwọn òkú ò ní darí wálé

mo gbá awọ arami mu bi ẹ̀wù tógbó, mo ní igbàgbó pé yíòkó agara bá iná.

kí iná tósẹ̀ yọ, igi tó ní ìbòji ńbẹ ní àgbàlà wa,

ó fẹ́, tó tó gba agbo ìgbéyàwó.

órún lúgọ sínú kúrukúru

pẹ̀lù ìrẹ̀wẹ̀si láti pàrè, ni n tó lè jẹ́ ti ìbẹ̀ru làti dá okùnkùn padà.

èéfi rú, lóké ilé to gbiná,

gbògbò ilu na si mọnlẹ, pèlu oun ti a pàdánù.

kí igi tódí oun tó níbòji,

gbọngbo rẹ takun de ìnu àpàtà lábẹ́ yẹ́pẹ̀

ilẹ̀ a sì máa kún fun ọgbẹ́

nìtori pe odàlè àwọn tọn rìn lórí rẹ́.

fún ìpàdánù olólùfẹ mi, mi ò ni jẹ́ ki olóngbo mi wọnú iná,

ṣùgbọ́n tí kò bá jóná, báwo ni mà se bẹ̀rẹ̀ íjọ́sin fun.

mo wo ójù ọ̀run, ṣ̀ugbọ́n o mó kangá, bi oju to pàyà ìgbádùn.

ni abẹ́ àwọ̀ àrami to gbo, ibùgbẹ̀ ni fún àwọn eyá labálabá,

ẹ́yi jẹ́ orin ìyìn fún àwọn ti ọta ìbọn dá ọgbẹ̀ si lára

nitòri pẹ wọn kò lè sáré.

láti dẹ́kun ìná yìí, gbogbo ere sṣísá gbọdọ̀ dópin

ti a ò bá fẹ́ fí eyín sá yí po iná tòun jo,

kòlé jẹ́ ìránti fún àwọn ọ̀nà tí a kò fẹ́ ṣẹ́ rí padà sí.

igi ọgbà yi yìó rúwé,

ṣùgbọn abẹ́ rẹ yíò si májẹ́ ibòji,

fún gbogbo ẹni tí ó fé jó ìjó ayọ̀.

Colony of Ghosts

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The war has ended, but the ghosts of our dead did not return.

I hang onto my old skin; I believe it held out the fire.

Before the fire, there’s a tree with a canopy in the backyard,

large enough to host a wedding procession.

The sun still hangs above the swollen face of the sky,

          reluctant to fade out

in what may be in the fear of reversing the dark nights.

The smoke would rise high on a house that was set on fire,

the whole town became lit with loss.

Before the canopy of leaves,

the tree stretched its root through the loamy, to the rocks beneath.

The ground had gullies

for betraying all that once walked on it.

In fear of losing another lover, I won’t let my cat into the fire,

if he does not burn in the flames, how do I start to worship it.

I look onto the sky, but it seems so plain as if suspicious of pleasure.

Beneath my old skin are temples of moths,

in praise of the men whose bodies were lined with bullet holes,

because they could not run faster.

To end the fire, the running would have to stop,

or we would begin to run backward around a fire

to remind ourselves of the paths we don’t want to take.

The tree would shed some of its leaves,

but it would be enough canopy,

under which everyone can dance in merriment.