Ìrókò: The Silent Giant

By Ọlọbẹ Yoyọn

In the heart of the ancient grove it stands,

Tall as memory, deep as time’s own hands.

Ìrókò, spirit-tree of the talking drums,

Where whispers of the elders hum.

Your roots drink stories from the clay,

From warriors’ bones, from nights and day;

Your bark bears marks of countless tongues,

Who prayed beneath when the world was young.

Children are told, “Do not mock the Ìrókò!”

For his spirit walks when the moon runs low;

He wears the wind like a flowing robe,

And sweeps the forest in a whispering globe.

Carpenters pause, their axes still,

For not all wood is theirs to kill;

Some trees are timber, but you are shrine,

An altar raised by the hand of time.

Ìrókò, father of the shade and rain,

Keeper of secrets, witness of pain.

You watched kingdoms rise, you watched them fall,

And still you stand, outliving all.

When thunder cracks and rivers swell,

You stir, and the forest knows your spell.

Birds bow mid-flight, the wind holds breath,

Even silence fears your death.

Oh Ìrókò, pillar of forgotten song,

Your shadow stretches, old and long.

The spirits gather beneath your leaves,

Where dreams take root, and memory grieves.

Arabirin Sola