Funeral Poem by Oluwaseun Ogunbiyi

'Twas time our teeth be sealed with bogus lips, frozen from the frost of tears.
Except for a form of mourning, they were to remain captives, the thirty two of them
or less.

From aloft, we all seemed black ants, clustering for honey,
But our reasons for gathering was bitter. As bitter as the shreiking voice of the
violin,
The tiring voice of the organ, as bitter as the sound of the hymns sung,
As the thoughts it bore so clung.

Assuredly a melodious tune it was, but our feets refused to dance. 'stead, more
tears
watered the soil, dust of grief arose, containing airs' naivety.

'Twas the last of the gigantic rectangle, slowly immersing, the grounds imbibing,
shovel
scorching sands with withered hands, bodies swaying, more intriguing than
martial arts,
honouring its lasts.