I will take you to the source
Of the terrible past:
Sun begat moon Moon begat ocean
Ocean twisted its configuration
Into paper which begat
Countless stories splashed on sand.
Out of sand, the graven image.
The moon shone on it.
The wind whipped past its ankles.
Twenty-eight miles tall,
It grew and grew.
Shadows fell from it,
Making night into more night.
Out of the darkness flew Papa Bois
And he dipped his finger
Into the Atlantic ocean
And so begat whirlwinds,
Staircases of water that twisted skywards –
And some of it fell into the wells
That pierced the flatlands
And out of them came the creatures
Whose hearts pumped eternal night,
And their shapes were diabolic.
Through towns and villages
The great shadow crossed
And rain followed it
Swept along the current of its black cloak,
Flinging itself hard as channa to the Earth,
That was when Lagahoo awoke
And rubbed his eyes, muttering
“This crap must stop”.
And he crawled thirteen miles
To the foot of the monstrous image
And on its toe
Wrote his name with an oar.
So it was that earth devoured sand
And light, the darkness,
And Lagahoo, unimpressed,
Built a great bonfire
And combed his hair
While Papa Bois and his children wept.
Fire begat heat
And heat, the frenzy of dancers
Free at last to dance at night,
And Lagahoo said to them:
This fire and this heat
will never be divided.
And evening came
And moonbeams begat lovers
And lovers spoke in whispers,
Soothing the island to sleep.