لامية الشنفرى

If it be human, it does what humans do.

Tí ó bá jẹ́ ènìyàn, ó ṣe bíi ti ènìyàn.

And on a day of Sirius, its saliva melts.

Ní ọjọ́ irawọ̀ Sirius, ìrò rẹ̀ ń tú.

Its serpents writhe in the blazing heat.

Àwọn ejò rẹ̀ ń yí ká nínú ooru.

I set my face toward it, with no barrier before it.

Mo dojú kọ́ ọ́, kò sí ìdènà níwájú rẹ̀.

No covering except the dark, tangled thicket.

Kò sí àbò bí kò ṣe igbo dídùdú tí ó dàrú.

A shelter that, when the wind flies, it scatters.

Àbò tí, nígbà tí afẹ́fẹ́ bá fò, ó tú ká.

For the wanderer, its sides are uncombed, untamed.

Fún arìnrìn, ẹgbẹ́ rẹ̀ kò ní ìtọ́jú, kò ní ìṣàkóso.

Far removed from oil’s touch or comb’s memory.

Kò ní ìfarahan epo tàbí ìrántí ìṣàkóso irun.

It bears a grim face, avoiding cleansing, turning away.

Ó ní ojú ìbànújẹ, ó kọ ìwẹ̀, ó yí padà.

And a wilderness like the back of a shield, I traversed it.

Mo kọjá aginjù bí ẹ̀yìn àjà, tí kò ní ohunkóhun.