Confusions Poem by Job Ombati

Few are the confusions
like that of a dog on a funeral day.
So many feet, so many sombre faces.
To bark or not.

A sea just arrives, and sits.
Talk is subdued.
To hear there shouldn't be a barking.
The mood is depressing,
not a single smile,
no petting, food a plenty but no love.

What happened?
What happened to the owner of the whistle?
They whistle, they call 'Simbaaa! '
But not like the owner of the whistle.
They throw food,
but not sweet as that thrown by the owner of the whistle.

Why so much trepidation in the homestead?
Why do people just arrive and congregate at the freshly dug mound?
The ways of man!

Rare faces depart.
Joy, the carefreeness
is gone.
Children laughter returns,
kites fly high,
skunks steal chicken in the stillness of the night.
But the urge, is lost.