Ààrẹ Kúrunmí Oyíndàólá, the wèrèpè of battle
That all over the enemy's body spills and leaves
His whole body hot with a burning sensation

You, Kúrunmí of Ìjàiyẹ̀, are the nocturnal battle lord
Who treads the land at an hour of night
When the suckling child never should crave breastmilk,
The one who wars at a time when the pestle
Must never with the mortar pound yam

You are Kúrunmí, the primer that signals war,
Baba o, body fortified with ìgbàdí, èwon sànpọ̀ǹna
And amulets of the ancient fathers and aged mothers
...