Stopping By The Graveyard On A Lonely Evening. Poem by Jacinta Nabakooza

Whose graves these are I think I know.
Their bodies are rotten 6 feet deep. though;
They will not see me stopping here
To envy their graves furnished up with turf and moss.

My young boy must think it bizarre
To stop by and begrudge dead men
Between the twilight and the midnight fright
The gloomiest night of the year.

He lifts his head up in wonder
To ask if there is any bewilderment.
The only sound's the sweep
Of the mutuba trees and windy weather.

The graves are charming, peaceful and black.
But I have obligations to make.
And journeys to go before I lay slack.
And days to glow before I sink.
-Jacinta Nabakooza