A Chant To The Ancestor Poem by Tosin Abegunde

Like the first born among the dead,
You are the Chief of strength among the immortals,
Wisdom of the warrior spirits and protector of orphans
In whom the spirit of hunting, iron, and warfare dwells;
Owner of many houses in the realm of the ancestors,
And one who covers the world yet had no cloth:
Palm frond is his regalia.

The earth most sojourn and Chief of all gods
Whom the heart of the forest is his township
And bloodline supremely creative:
The foremost symbol of excellence,
Whose heat transforms carbon into diamonds,
Sandstone into marbles, and marble into gneiss;
The heart beat and final contraction during birth.

You are a violent warrior in the face of injustice
Who nurtured me to pursue justice relentlessly:
Your busy hammer and anvil transform
And renew my strength like the eagle.
The firm, fearless and forthright father
Who is fully armed-to-teeth with truth and honesty,
Cowards and infidels you show no mercy.

The arch deity in the palace of the almighty,
Whose countenance blinding light is dangerous to dare.
The mighty father who possesses two matchets:
With one he prepares the farm, and
With the other he clears the road.
May you remove any obstruction from my path
And never quiz me on any matter.

On the days my lord spiritual is enraged,
There is always disaster in the universe
Just like the coming of a thief in the night:
The heaven immigrants will be countless
The eyelashes are drenched in agony
And tears stream down the face
To coldly feast at his bloody merriment!

Where does one meet him?
One meets him in the place of battle and violent scenes,
Where wrangling and vituperation reigns;
Where torrents of flooding blood fill with longing
As a cup of water does the thirsty.
Tell a betrayal to mind his multiple boils that sting
For my valiant lord is voraciously nervous.

I adore your seven sacred spirits and tastes:
Dogs, rams, snails, roasted yam, ram's horn, tortoise flesh
And going after the city wall remain your emblem.
Whichever divinity disregards you will eat his yams
With his hands without a knife countless times.
War mongers should not joke about war with him
For Ògún is waiting anxiously to strike.