Jah know, mi see dis ting Melissa, 185 mile-per-hour wind lashin’ like de whip of Babylon in de old days, matchin’ de fiercest Atlantic tempest ever scribble pon record. Category 5, pure dread judgement, eye wide like de moon over Mount Zion, spinnin’ wrath dat shake de heavens dem. De air itself scream rebellion, tearin’ leaf from branch, zinc from roof, pride from heart. I and I know dis nah just weather; dis a sign, a trumpet blast from de Most High, tellin’ man fi check him ways before de earth open and swallow.

De sea, mi bredda, de sea rise up angry—thirteen foot surge, higher dan de tower of Babel, ready fi flood de coast and wash away every false foundation. From Negril point to Morant Bay, de wave march like warrior, crashin’ pon fisher hut and tourist hotel alike, no respecta fi class or color. De river dem swell, de road dem vanish, de mango tree bow low in supplication. Yet in de roar I hear de voice of Marcus, de spirit of Nanny, remindin’ I and I dat water cleanse as much as it destroy. Hold fast, Jamaica; grip de root and chant down de flood.

But Rastafari conqueror! Wi nah cower under table; wi stand pon de rock of Haile Selassie I, light wi spliff, beat wi nyabinghi drum till de storm tremble. Wi share de last ackee, carry de elder cross de water, bind up de wounded wid herb and love. When Melissa pass, wi rise from de mud stronger, plant new seed in de washed soil, build back wid bamboo and truth. De sun will shine again pon I island, brighter dan before, for every trial carve deeper de livity of Jah. One love, one heart—wi irie still. Selah.