Tremulous Voices Of The Dead Poem by Warrith Olawale

After flipping through pages of nightly oblivion,
Hours of the day, like musical notes, play on.
I hear your call, your summons causing dread,
I hear you, tremulous voices of the dead.
And in answering you, I've come this far,
I've squeezed through the doors of nine months ajar,
I've swum across childhood's oblivion, drunk its water;
In answering you, I've come this far.
I hear you, tremulous voices of the dead
Calling from the green garden well-fed.
The green garden that is, by faith, sown,
Where the soul is liberated of racial frown,
Where diverse colours of rainbow harmoniously weave,
Where hearts with the fear of bruises, no longer live.
Calling from this garden as the bright bees do,
Tremulous voices of the dead, I hear you.
And 'til the sunset comes leading me to your abode,
I clutch this boiling Earth with a tremulous hold.