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BareBramblePoems
We Native Sang Soft like a voice calling me home. Ori mi, grant me the wealth to see good things, Ori mi, gi mi ni owo lati ri ohun rere. I sing with the natives, songs carried for years from ancestors to ancestors, mouth to mouth, drum to drum. Ori gbe mi de ibi ire, may my destiny carry me to the place of goodness. Mine may not be reggae, nor the slow cry of blues. Mine is the ancient rhythm traditional, breathing, redeeming my path. We native sang. A pulse beneath the ground, older than memory, older than the dust of our fathers’ roads. The Aki people, bright as fireflies in the night air, dancing between shadows and light. Children of the broken sun, scattered yet glowing. Yet still we point the right fingers toward the right direction of our homes. Away… away… away… Carry my voice like smoke to the beyond. Let it rise past the hills of spirits, past the listening sky. Abo, hear us. Bless us with a new song. Bless us with a new song we natives have never sung before. A song for healing. A song for return. A song for tomorrow. And when the drums awaken, and the earth remembers our feet We will sing again. We native sang. And we will sing. ©️ Dibang Mary
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Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 10:54 PM UTC
We Native Sang
We Native Sang Soft like a voice calling me home. Ori mi, grant me the wealth to see good things, Ori mi, gi mi ni owo lati ri ohun rere. I sing with the natives, songs carried for years from ancestors to ancestors, mouth to mouth, drum to drum. Ori gbe mi de ibi ire, may my destiny carry me to the place of goodness. Mine may not be reggae, nor the slow cry of blues. Mine is the ancient rhythm traditional, breathing, redeeming my path. We native sang. A pulse beneath the ground, older than memory, older than the dust of our fathers’ roads. The Aki people, bright as fireflies in the night air, dancing between shadows and light. Children of the broken sun, scattered yet glowing. Yet still we point the right fingers toward the right direction of our homes. Away… away… away… Carry my voice like smoke to the beyond. Let it rise past the hills of spirits, past the listening sky. Abo, hear us. Bless us with a new song. Bless us with a new song we natives have never sung before. A song for healing. A song for return. A song for tomorrow. And when the drums awaken, and the earth remembers our feet We will sing again. We native sang. And we will sing. ©️ Dibang Mary
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BareBramble
Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 10:54 PM UTC
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