I.
Listen—
all scriptures speak with thunder and hush.
A king’s voice,a prophet’s word, a parable’s shadow—
they tremble between the heart and the hand.
Ọ̀rọ̀Ọba bí iná,
the monarch’s word burns,
yet the wise collect warmth,not ash.
For in the house of Ifá, the fire’s purpose is light,
and every flame is judged by the character it reveals— Iwà Pẹ̀lẹ́ is the true hearth.
II.
Israel’s hills remember the trumpet:
Joshua,Deuteronomy, the voices of conquest—
dust rising like prayer,
blood a language of accountability,
not eternity.
Every march once a cradle,
every sword a teacher.
Every war, a verse from the Odù of a people,
a lesson to be divined, not a destiny to be repeated.
III.
Across deserts, across seas,
another voice calls:
“Fight those who fight you,
do not transgress.”
The Qur’an’s circle is drawn
like a fence around mercy;
swords in hand,yet tempered by conscience,
by treaty,by ethics,
by the whisper:Aláàfíà ni ọba—peace is king.
Here, the law is Èwò—sacred prohibition;
a boundary that protects the community’s Àşẹ, its vital force.
IV.
And then the Nazarene, barefoot, speaking in stories:
a king demanding loyalty,
enemies trembling in parables,
yet He walks without armies,
His only weapon:mercy.
He turns the sword inward,
softens the heart,
tilts the scales toward forgiveness.
He is the walking Ètùtù—the coolness,
the antidote to the world’s fever, restoring Ìwà where it was cracked.
V.
But hear the Babaláwo reading the signs of time:
“Not all battles are Ijà of flesh; some are Ijà of spirit.
Ọ̀rúnmìlà says: ‘Àgbọn (the wasp) defends with sting,
yet its home is a fragile hive.’
The Ògèdè (banana plant) offers fruit and perishes.
Which path preserves the grove?”
Hear the Yoruba rhythm beneath it all:
“Itan ni a n pa—
we tell the story,
we do not become its violence.”
History’s drum,scripture’s fire,
they teach,they caution, they illuminate.
The spear in the story
is not the spear in life.
It is a Sàǹgó staff: a symbol of authority,
not a command to burn the world.
VI.
So meditate:
the war outside is mirror,
the judgment within.
The true Idà (sword) is discernment—Ìmọ̀tàn—
the sharp edge that divides truth from illusion in the heart.
Every fiery word,every marching verse,
calls us to reckon—not to strike.
The sword is an allegory;
the fire,a teacher.
And the teacher’s ultimate lesson is Ìwà rere: good character,
the only offering Òrìşà accepts without blood.
VII.
Where the scrolls open,
where the spears rest,
where conscience meets scripture—
there is the silent court:
The Ìdí (source), the unseen Àkàşe (record) where Èmí (consciousness) kneels.
God’s whisper beyond the sword,
the dawn beyond the parable,
the peace that crowns all understanding.
That peace has a name: Aláàfíà—
wholeness, calm, completeness—
the condition in which Àşẹ (life force) flows unbroken.
VIII.
And finally, the revelation of the Odù:
Where violence ends,
the Òrìşà begin their true work.
For they are not fed by chaos, but by order;
not by spilled èjè (blood), but by offered èjè (sacrifice of self).
Let the words breathe,
let mercy speak,
let the ultimate sacrifice be the surrendered will.
Let peace,
in all its forms,
be our iré—our divine blessing,
our chosen portion from the sacred palm.
© Lanre Adebayo.
May 20
May 20, 2026 at 3:33 PM UTC
I.
Listen—
all scriptures speak with thunder and hush.
A king’s voice,a prophet’s word, a parable’s shadow—
they tremble between the heart and the hand.
Ọ̀rọ̀Ọba bí iná,
the monarch’s word burns,
yet the wise collect warmth,not ash.
For in the house of Ifá, the fire’s purpose is light,
and every flame is judged by the character it reveals— Iwà Pẹ̀lẹ́ is the true hearth.
II.
Israel’s hills remember the trumpet:
Joshua,Deuteronomy, the voices of conquest—
dust rising like prayer,
blood a language of accountability,
not eternity.
Every march once a cradle,
every sword a teacher.
Every war, a verse from the Odù of a people,
a lesson to be divined, not a destiny to be repeated.
III.
Across deserts, across seas,
another voice calls:
“Fight those who fight you,
do not transgress.”
The Qur’an’s circle is drawn
like a fence around mercy;
swords in hand,yet tempered by conscience,
by treaty,by ethics,
by the whisper:Aláàfíà ni ọba—peace is king.
Here, the law is Èwò—sacred prohibition;
a boundary that protects the community’s Àşẹ, its vital force.
IV.
And then the Nazarene, barefoot, speaking in stories:
a king demanding loyalty,
enemies trembling in parables,
yet He walks without armies,
His only weapon:mercy.
He turns the sword inward,
softens the heart,
tilts the scales toward forgiveness.
He is the walking Ètùtù—the coolness,
the antidote to the world’s fever, restoring Ìwà where it was cracked.
V.
But hear the Babaláwo reading the signs of time:
“Not all battles are Ijà of flesh; some are Ijà of spirit.
Ọ̀rúnmìlà says: ‘Àgbọn (the wasp) defends with sting,
yet its home is a fragile hive.’
The Ògèdè (banana plant) offers fruit and perishes.
Which path preserves the grove?”
Hear the Yoruba rhythm beneath it all:
“Itan ni a n pa—
we tell the story,
we do not become its violence.”
History’s drum,scripture’s fire,
they teach,they caution, they illuminate.
The spear in the story
is not the spear in life.
It is a Sàǹgó staff: a symbol of authority,
not a command to burn the world.
VI.
So meditate:
the war outside is mirror,
the judgment within.
The true Idà (sword) is discernment—Ìmọ̀tàn—
the sharp edge that divides truth from illusion in the heart.
Every fiery word,every marching verse,
calls us to reckon—not to strike.
The sword is an allegory;
the fire,a teacher.
And the teacher’s ultimate lesson is Ìwà rere: good character,
the only offering Òrìşà accepts without blood.
VII.
Where the scrolls open,
where the spears rest,
where conscience meets scripture—
there is the silent court:
The Ìdí (source), the unseen Àkàşe (record) where Èmí (consciousness) kneels.
God’s whisper beyond the sword,
the dawn beyond the parable,
the peace that crowns all understanding.
That peace has a name: Aláàfíà—
wholeness, calm, completeness—
the condition in which Àşẹ (life force) flows unbroken.
VIII.
And finally, the revelation of the Odù:
Where violence ends,
the Òrìşà begin their true work.
For they are not fed by chaos, but by order;
not by spilled èjè (blood), but by offered èjè (sacrifice of self).
Let the words breathe,
let mercy speak,
let the ultimate sacrifice be the surrendered will.
Let peace,
in all its forms,
be our iré—our divine blessing,
our chosen portion from the sacred palm.
© Lanre Adebayo.
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