Bakandamiya
In Jangari, beyond sama na bakwai,
in the township of spirits, I woke up
to a drunken daylight. And strung songs of origin
into the coves of Black Rock, my saddle of power,
where rowdy spirits laughed and wailed
in a frisky dance. It all began
there,
when Babban Inna, womb of the universe, plunged her hands
into the moist embers of the primal flower,
shaping and molding it,
until, like limp butterflies,
our scenic bodies emerged
from the pupa of her infinite life.
With wringing fingers of rheum, she opened our eyes
and perfected us with every touch,
like stone under a master sculptor.
Babban Inna’s deific body nourished us
through youth. Sarki consumed the last of her—
the fury she tucked away, in her bosom.
Near a celestial creel of compost, we broke open
from the cocoon of her care and soared on the thralls
of ecstasy, our wings ablaze with light.
