Written Orders Of An Old High Priest Poem by Mosi Mustapha Gomina

Fellow priests, monks, nuns, friends, all that read this;
as burning tears roll out my failing eyes;
this is what you must do when I'm deceased;
with my body cold; my soul in the skies.

First, promise me that no tears will be shed;
no mourning, no chanting of morbid hymns;
do not allow your heart rule o'er your head;
don't allow emotions cloud your reasoning.

Pray to the Lord to keep my wearied soul;
lest I blindly stroll into lakes of Hell;
that I may sip from the celestial bowl;
with the chiming of episcopal bells.

My body must be wrapped in cotton-white;
recently plucked from the monastery's fields;
this must be done with all joy and delight;
taking care not to spill the bereaved seeds.

Do not forget to clip my finger-nails;
to cut my hair and a gay decent bath;
if 'tis with this request you choose to fail;
feed me to beasts along the forest's path.

Have I mentioned the time for my burial?
At noon; the mid-point between dawn and dusk;
I'll behold all this via Heaven's aerial;
watching as I'm laid and clothed with dust.

Send out four missionaries on that day;
to the East, the West, the North and the South;
let them come back on the fourteenth of May;
three years after the Word is spread about.

Lay me beneath the shores of Africa;
the land that birthed me to black parents;
I know that it is from Rome, very far;
but I'd rather lie in the Negro's tents.

Share the little I have among the poor;
and please, add little to it if you can;
from your ever-friendly hearts, please do pour;
for from the church, flows grace for the land.

Lastly, be attired in godly garments;
for it is what you sow that you shall reap;
may Jehovah be the source of your strenght;
do all this when my eyes are joined in sleep.