(Back in the Yoruba village. Oloruntobi is preparing for the arrival of the visitors. He is calm, methodical. Adewale is buzzing with nervous energy.)
DR. VANCE
(Scoffs)
A hidden land? This is mythology.
(The End.)
The Poetry Version
A drumbeat, low and deep,
a pulse of earth, of sleep.
The babalawo's hands are old,
his stories wait to be told.
The young man, swift and bright,
sees war in blinding light.
A third world fire, a digital storm,
no god can keep the nations warm.
The old man hears the fear,
but holds the sacred near.
His palm nuts rattle on the tray,
the secrets of a world astray.
Okanran Meji, Eji Ogbe,
The sickness grows from root to bough.
The head, so high, forgets the feet,
a bitter end for bitter sweet.
The white men come, with metal wings,
they bring their strange and urgent things.
Their maps are red, their data screams,
they walk in a maze of broken dreams.
They scoff at drums, at ancient ways,
at wisdom born of countless days.
"We need a plan, a tactical sight!"
They crave the day but fear the night.
The old man smiles, a knowing gleam,
he sees beyond the surface stream.
He hears a whisper in the wood,
a path to peace not understood.
Irosun Ogbe, the healing word,
a different sacrifice is heard.
Not blood, not steel, but selfish greed,
the barren soil of wicked seed.
The grandson, bridge of old and new,
sees patterns where the old man knew.
He links the wisdom, deep and slow,
to data streams, to make it so.
He speaks of earth, a desert place,
a hidden mine, a poisoned race.
The white men stare, their science bends,
their world of logic comprehends.
The praise is given, loud and long,
for solving what they saw as wrong.
But the babalawo, in the quiet sun,
knows the true war had already won.
The praise was not for the wisdom's art,
but for the healing of a broken heart.
For in the end, when all is said,
it was not war, but wisdom that counts.
(Based on the previous play, here are long poems that explore the themes of Ifa oracle, wisdom, tradition, and healing in the face of global conflict and technological advancement. They follow a narrative arc from a world on the brink of collapse to one of restored balance, informed by ancient knowledge.)
The Rattle's Warning
The palm nuts fall, a coded sound,
on polished tray, on sacred ground.
The rhythm breaks, the pattern lies,
a global fever in its eyes.
The Metal Birds
The metal birds, they scream and soar,
they drop their thunder on the shore.
The white man's logic, sharp and cold,
a story waiting to be sold.
The Awo's Sight
My inner eye sees more than this,
a sickness born of greed’s abyss.
Not bomb, nor bullet, nor coded fright,
but a soul that turns away from light.
The Child's Question
My grandson holds his glass that gleams,
he speaks of data, screens, and dreams.
“What can you offer, old and slow,
when all the world is built on show?”
The Elder's Answer
A river knows its path from spring,
a secret that the waters sing.
The path you walk, the path you find,
is written in the roots of mind.
The Chief's Fear
The drums, they beat a hurried pace,
a fearful silence on each face.
The harvests fail, the wells run low,
where does the wisdom go, Owo?
The White Man's Riddle
From sterile room, the message flies,
a riddle for the darkened skies.
"The land of drums," their screens display,
a desperate wager on a new day.
The Sound of Change
The beating rhythm shifts and turns,
a lesson that the modern learns.
The oracle, a silent drum,
awaits the weary to come.
The Broken Vessel
The world, a vessel, cracked and dry,
reflects a sick and wounded sky.
The water leaks, the river's slow,
a broken wisdom we must know.
The Forgotten Song
They built their towers, high and steep,
and cast the ancient songs to sleep.
But stone can crumble, steel can rust,
and old words stir in morning dust.
The Guests Arrive
They come in steel, a silent horde,
respectful but un-accorded.
Their eyes, they seek a single truth,
to prove the folly of my youth.
The Skeptic's Gaze
The woman watches, calm and keen,
she judges what her eyes have seen.
Her science, hard and neatly bound,
cannot yet measure sacred ground.
The First Cast
I cast the nuts, a prayer on breath,
for life that triumphs over death.
The sacred signs, they speak a word,
a truth the world has never heard.
The Head and Body
The head, it thinks, the hands they move,
but both must learn to truly love.
The western head, the southern heart,
must learn to play a single part.
The Scientist's Doubt
“This is a myth,” the woman cries,
“a tale to please unlearned eyes.”
But in her data, cold and gray,
a new and ancient pattern lay.
The Bridge
My grandson, taught in new and old,
translates the stories to be told.
The digital, the sacred, blend,
the wisdom finds its modern friend.
The Secret Mine
The verses speak of desert sand,
of hidden mines in foreign land.
A whispered curse, a burning stone,
a greed that grows in flesh and bone.
The Source of Rot
Not armies, no, but silent rot,
a poison in a hidden plot.
The funding, fueled by mineral lust,
a fragile empire built on dust.
The Real Battle
The battle was not fought with might,
but with the turning of the light.
Not power’s thrust, but truth’s soft gleam,
that shatters a delusive dream.
The Healing Word
The word is heard, the message read,
the path to peace begins to spread.
The head, at last, kneels to the ground,
the ancient wisdom has been found.
The Praise of the White Man
They spoke of balance, spoke of peace,
a war’s cold, bitter end release.
They praised the counsel, wise and deep,
that wakes the promise from its sleep.
The Oracle's Echo
The world remembers, or it learns,
the wheel of fortune slowly turns.
The oracle's echo, soft and clear,
dispels the cloud of doubt and fear.
The Drum’s Joy
The drumbeat now, a happy sound,
across the once-forgotten ground.
The harvest ripens, rich and deep,
a promise that the elders keep.
The New Bridge
The grandson's phone, it hums and glows,
but now a different wisdom shows.
He sees the link, the sacred bond,
the future and the years beyond.
The Silent Lesson
The oracle spoke, but not to boast,
to save the ones who needed most.
To show that strength is not in steel,
but in the way our spirits feel.
The World's New Ori
The world has chosen, found its way,
a different sun, a different day.
Its Ori, cleansed, can feel and see,
its destined path, its liberty.
The Whispering Wind
The wind now carries, soft and low,
the secrets that the elders know.
A fragile peace, a gentle trust,
a future born from golden dust.
The River’s Flow
The rivers, once so dark and slow,
resume their ancient, steady flow.
A simple truth, a sacred sign,
the balance of the world is thine.
The Sacrifice
The sacrifice was not in blood,
but in the damming of the flood.
The bitter river of old hate,
diverted from its final fate.
The Sun's Embrace
The sun, it rises, warm and bright,
embracing day, forgiving night.
A final peace, a quiet morn,
a world, not won, but new-born.
A Further Movement: The Legacy
The Ase of Ifa
The words have power, strength untold,
a story to be passed, not sold.
The ase, charged with sacred fire,
fulfills the deepest soul’s desire.
The Orisha's Smile
The Orishas, watching from above,
bless the world with patient love.
They see the healing, see the light,
a new day born from endless night.
The White Man's Song
The white man's praise, a fragile thing,
the fragile song his world can sing.
A grateful whisper, soft and low,
to the ancient truth that helped it grow.
The Weaver’s Thread
The world is woven, strand on strand,
a single thread in every land.
The oracle, the master weaver,
is now the world’s true believer.
The Drumbeat's Lesson
The drumbeat, slow, and soft, and deep,
the promises that the earth will keep.
The rhythm learned by head and heart,
the final peace, the final art.
The Grandson's Path
My grandson walks, with measured tread,
the ancient paths where elders led.
He carries with him, bright and keen,
the knowledge from a different screen.
The Woman’s Understanding
The woman now, her data filed,
her wisdom's heart no longer mild.
She understands the unseen art,
the fragile science of the heart.
The General’s Respect
The general, with his battle plans,
now trusts the wisdom of these lands.
He understands the unseen war,
the fight for what is at the core.
The Final Praise
The final praise, not spoken loud,
but carried on a quiet cloud.
A thanks to earth, and sun, and sky,
for the simple truths that never die.
The Global Harvest
The farms now flourish, harvests grow,
the seeds of peace are meant to sow.
A global hunger, so long felt,
before the ancient warmth has knelt.
The Oracle’s Garden
The world, a garden, bruised and torn,
awaits the promise of the morn.
The oracle, the ancient seed,
answers the world’s most basic need.
The New Song
The old songs rise, the new songs come,
the world is not forever numb.
The wisdom echoes, strong and free,
a global, ancient jubilee.
The Shared Horizon
The sun now rises for us all,
a single answer to the call.
The light, it touches every shore,
the world is one, and asks for more.
The Endless Story
The story ends, the story starts,
a thousand beating, grateful hearts.
The wisdom lives, the lesson stays,
to guide us all through future days.
The Final Drumbeat
The final drumbeat, slow and deep,
a promise that the world will keep.
The rhythm of the earth and sky,
a love that will not ever die.
A New Language
The language spoken is not heard,
but felt within a single word.
A word of balance, root and tree,
a word of common destiny.
The Old Man's Smile
The old man smiles, his work is done,
the future's course has just begun.
He trusts the seed that has been sown,
a peace that every land will own.
The Grandson's Gift
He leaves a gift, not gold, but thread,
a bridge where all the old and new have led.
A whispered wisdom, truth’s clear gleam,
a future born of an old man's dream.
The Last Cast
He casts the last nut, smooth and slow,
and watches where the currents flow.
The pattern's clear, the message true,
a better world for me and you.
The Silent Praise
The final praise is said without a sound,
the sacred silence, all around.
The world, at peace, has found its way,
and Ifa waits another day
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