ONCE UPON A TIME WITH Ọ̀RÚMÌLÀ

In the evening’s calm, before sleep’s embrace, Ọ̀rúmìlà shared truths I hold in sacred space: “Life’s race beneath the sun is bound by time, Each wick must fade, kissed by oil and grime.”

The fool and sage converge at day’s end, To weigh our toil, where scorn and somber blend. Our struggles, like thyme in a bitter stew, Are etched in records time will not undo.

I yearn to reach life’s heights, twenty or more, But Azrael’s roll call settles every score. From onípélé to alábàjà, all rely on Jah, No mortal voice can halt time’s final law.

“Rage against the fading light,” he said, “No height is gained if your heart’s misled. When labor wanes, the heavens restore, But wisdom’s path the wise explore.”

This truth the ancients never forsook, Yet Gen Z treads a road they overlook.