When the great tree, ìrókò fell
Even the trifling spinach shuddered
It saddened the heart of Olú-igbó
Kowéè sang gently in sorrow
Even the ẹyẹ ẹ̀gà cried in stentorian pain
His household depended on the life of ìrókò But, Aníkúlápó, the wood carver rejoiced
Of what need are the chisels and sharp-edged àáké?
Aníkúlápó, the dutiful wood-carver
Aníkúlápó, the famous coffin cum bier maker
Carving his wooden works of ẹsẹ̀ mẹ́fà
Did he not say àṣẹ to prayers of eating the fruit of his labour?
Perhaps, he knew not the meaning of his ìjánu!
Aníkúlápó, the one who owns death in his pouch!
Àbí, didn’t he know?
That the famous Kútì and ‘Kúdáyisi
Now dine and wine with Abọ́bakú in ìwàlẹ̀?
Not in in a glass house with chandeliers
Now, Aníkúlápó has gone to àsànte for a horse’s horn!
The death in his pouch said it was time
Kowéè sings now, more sorrowfully
A wish it was! But the white Lékelèke
Breathed its last in its white glory!
There lies Aníkúlápó, in the last piece of his handiwork.