In the simmering expectations of festive April,
after the celebration of salutations by dear Gabriel.
Deep in my dense rainforest homeland,
a different kind of celebration is at hand.
Dawn breaks over our (oja) flute clarion call,
speaking of our great ancestor's love for all.
The morning stillness stirs by the flirtious breeze,
our elders arise first as drowsy as our hooded sun,
our magic flute(oja muo) calls out to all first sons,
the time to awake our slumbering ancestor is here.
I run out into my grandpa's barn for my old gong,
a merry band of first sons(opara) starts a song,
itching fingers slap the skin drums into sweet beats,
a twitching spirit sneaks into our hands and feet,
down the valley we go to our motherly stream.
Dancing to gongs and drums jioned by our voices,
Peter Pans kind of faith bears us along without choices.
At the bank we are stilled into a frightening silence,
the eldest sons incantations make me tense,
soon the hush is filled with happy shouts of glee,
from the marshy earth our ancestor burst forth free,
followed by our drums, gongs, shouts and song.
He leads shaking his rafia coat while dancing along,
around the village we go till dusk beckons,
it is time to part but our hearts doesn't reckon,
in the lovely heat of merring, dancing and singing,
we forget our sorrows, fears, worries and longings.
At dusk we all realize our time together has passed,
smiling home I realize at last how much Iam blessed.