Ourselves Dancers Poem by Ifeoluwa Philips

Let us be ourselves dancers
Since our sons are our singers
With the beating hard of Okuku drum
See the stirring of our bairn ankle to the call of the Okuku drum

Where are our damsel daughters
Who can interpret Okuku sound to our drummers
The thin air sounds sarcastic
So, also the Okuku voice lost in drastic

Obenbe the priest has slept off
And the house is almost fall off
There are sorrow bearers standing there
And their bow of tears in their hands over there

Our tone is similar
Our pain is familiar
The tears is thicker than our imaginations
Our sorrow bearers in advance stagnations

Okuku drummers are deaf
Their soles interpreter has left
The day is about to clear
When every eye of a blind dancers will be clear

Okuku has no sacrifice
The okuku drum is much of sacred sacrifice
Soles are too flat to dance the sound
And the boot in deep kiss with the sand

Okuku the god of palm
Drunk of self ego and embalm
Who shall offer to Okuku
The dance that will wake him of his deep sleep?