Amidst the heart
of the village,
nature breathes slow
sky seem listens
with its folded arms;
There stands a palm tree
not so young, not so old,
but it reminds me of eternal!
Not shout as the flamboyant flame,
nor bend like the cassava stalk.
It stands still and lean,
a wise who has seen many
colorful seasons and surprised rain.
We call it Ọ̀pẹ̀,
do not know why!
Planted by a mysterious man
talked to spirits and walked alone.
Nor denying this;
only sways with wind
comes with ancient stories!
So sing to it, nay for yield,
but for utmost blessing.
Moved by the song,
would it for bleed?
That wine not drunk yet;
only was the fresh memory
and the time to be fade.
It does not grow
where not wanted,
chooses the soil
like a prophet chooses.
Not in the city,
find it by the stream;
find it near the muddy road,
where the rooster
calls the sunrises!
When the wind comes
long-legged, dust-footed foams,
the scent of harmattan
but the palm definitely not resist!
It dances wildly,
like the anonymous chieftain
greeting the mighty gods!
The Elaeis guineensis!
but the village knows better;
they call it a proverb.
It did not forget the hand
that planted even the blind man
knows this tree by its chanting whisper!
The palm will fall.
Not because of age
but of nature's rage!
And it does and the village will gather;
not to mourn, but to remember!
split its trunk and find stories;
press its fruit and taste history.
Plant its seed and begin again.
And for the palm is not a tree a cycle.
With 💙
