by Ogwiji Ehi-Kowochio

Tell them that this is not a poem
It is words: broken words, exuding grief-
Sobbing profusely as their tears roll down
The cheeks of sad papers, in lines and verses

For we mourn, a morn
That was born dead
From the deflating womb
Of a once pregnant night.

Oh Death, raise not thy shoulders!
For as I chew raw memories
And drink from the calabash of nostalgia-
Not sweetened with sugary hyperboles
And salty flatteries; you, Death are but a loser
And our sleeping Bisi, a winner!
’cause she was like dew to the grasses-
Gentle, unlike the ragging raindrops,
Yet leaving enough moisture to cause
A smile on greeneries even in the face
Of hurtful harmattans.

Death, pride not in your ability
To grab opportunities!
For you have given our Bisi
An escape velocity from this field of pain,
Which like gravity; pulls her downwards
And scorns her upward movement
With bountiful aches and countless crisis

Death, can’t you see that you lost again?
You lost this wrestling match to your
own cowardice for no champion sneaks
in on a sleeping opponent!

And to you all, wipe your tears my friends,
Let us wrap Bisi in napkins of love,
Waybill her to her creator for an eternity of rest;
And then sit back and watch Death-
A folk; forlorn, deserted and defeated,
With none to mourn him when he dies,
For even Death will die!

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