Olori Ade Poem by Doris Dzameshie

She sang "early will I seek You"—not with mere words,
but with breath stitched from dawn itself.
Her mantle swept the air, rippling unseen veils,
each lyric carved in the thunder of sacred intention.

Omolomo gazed—one eye tethered to stars,
the other tracing vibrations beneath her own feet.
Then the heavens peeled back like burning scrolls,
and Mawu Sogbolisa leaned low—listening.

Olori moved—not danced, but shifted.
As if each note unlatched a lock in the cosmos.
Then suddenly, her body folded, altar-bound,
as if touched by eternity's fingertip.

Grace did not descend. It erupted.
It seized the room, swallowed silence,
twisted stillness into trembling light.
She clung to the mic—not to be heard,
but to anchor herself within the flood of divine communion.

And then...
A hush swept in, so sovereign it could be mistaken for time itself.
Olori's voice melted into radiance.
The angels took her place—chanting not over her,
but through her.
"Holy are You, Lord, " they echoed,
in a chord not sung but remembered—
as if it had always been inscribed beneath creation's skin.

Question to Ponder:
If heaven listens when one soul sings—
does silence make us more divine,
or merely more aware
that the song was never ours to begin with?