When the chicken’s feet brush a human form,
It’s no accident, but a whispered norm.
Ancient eyes see a sign, a sacred call,
A shield against envy, darkness, and ill will’s fall.
Feet of the bird become talismans of might,
Calling rain to the thirsty, healing unseen plight.
They open doorways to futures yet unknown,
And if they rest upon you, the elders declare it shown.
“You have been chosen,” they say with reverence true,
No longer just flesh and bone, but a vessel anew.
A guardian of the tribe, a keeper of the unseen path,
A prophecy unfolds, a sacred trust to craft.
In Africa’s lore, the chicken’s feet hold sway,
A crossroads of destiny and protection, a sacred way.
They bear the signature of spirits, a mystic sign,
A call to those who seek guidance, a symbol divine.
