In Death Poem by Robert Abok

When am gone and parked,
Before I am kept and stored,
I know not what good will be talked,
For then I will be silent with my heart hardened.

I beg for the truth and no gossips,
Though I will have no say from my tightened lips
But when you’ll lie I hope that my heart leaps,
And I rise from my package before you rush to store.

Oh preacher, daughter of my mother land,
Talk to the most high and for my sins intercede,
Ask not of my soul’s redemption,
But preacher, ask that I triumph when by luck He comes at the end.