Ní Ìlú Mi
Ní ìlú mi, o lè ṣisẹ́
bí erin kò sí ma jẹ̀jẹ ẹ̀lírí
orin kò sí kò sí ni ìkokò ǹkọ
ṣùgbọ́n ẹnu wọn kún fún ẹ̀jẹ̀
ojú ọ̀run sú dẹ̀dẹ̀ẹ̀
ṣùgbọ́n òjò pagi lápá kan dápá kán
sí ni àwọn òsà orí òkè fi ṣe.
Ní ìlú mi, òkùnkùn sú birimù birimù
òṣùpá dí òun a ń gbàdúrà fún lọ́jọ́ kọ́jọ́.
Lónìí, ìka ìbàjẹ́ ti di oun fí ń júwe ilé,
tí a ń fi sapejuwe ojú oríì àwọn bàbá waa.
In My Country
In my country, every animal carries a metaphor that has failed
and calloused hands bear a sad tribute to the elephant tale.
In my country, the wolves of the mountain cry about
nothingness but their mouths are soaked in blood
and when the gods spray their rain of grace, new arable grows
in earth far beyond our feet. In this country, the night
wears a heavy cloak of darkness and the moon has become
large plate of treasure we pray for so that our sky may carry new lights.
Today, we point to our homes with germ-infested fingers
and our ancestors’ tombs are marked with rotten memories.
