Bakandamiya ["In Jangari, beyond sama na bakwai"]

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.