Lain across a dirt hill,
Almost like a slab of meat.
I miss seeing you preach,
The first dead slave-disciple.
We cannot bury you,
For this is the prerogative
Of the once human, worry not
Decomposition will not occur.
You were never named flesh.
I will leave these words,
In a note atop your desert grave.
I will remember you, forever
And always, zipped up and enclosed
Within the envelope of my mind.
dead cells like nails.....cannot be ignored as we want it to throw for public and private...only when another throw, we throw tantrums.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
another thought provoking piece here...good write,