Dead In Twelve Moons Poem by DAYO PETERS DESINA

DEAD IN TWELVE MOONS


He shall be dead in twelve moons

His bed shall be the grave

And his wrapper, mother earth

The termites shall perform

The post-mortem rites

In the graveyard of his room



The termites shall sing

A dirge of exodus

And the blast of automobile horns

Shall sing the refrain…



The ants shall troop out in black

For the meaningful mourning

And though most of them

Will never behold his heir

They shall come to rejoice

The destined death of a loved one

For his heir shall be born

At his death



Though, he shall wish to die

With a new satin on his body

And his coffin made of gold

But his pyjamas shall be wrinkled

And his sheet stained and dirty



Though he shall wish

For meat and drink

To flow freely at his burial

His flesh and blood

Shall not be enough good food

For the bugs and termites





A dull onyx will be set

Beside him – the colour of

His bed sheet…a rainbow

He shall lay lifeless in submission

To death as the ants shall

March and drum back and forth



Well, just the day before

He shall swear an oath

In the name of the gods

To repay his debt soon

But no record shall be set



Then, a cloudy visionary shall come

And touch him on his arm

He shall tell him the processions

Of his planned death

And the smile of contentment

That filled peoples’ mouth

When his temporary death

Was announced!



POSTSCRIPT:

Twelve moons have gone by and regimes of promises pregnant with lies, swept down the drain. Let us close our eyes, blow out the candles and quickly wish that the coming losses and woes lost their touch. For, soon, before we know it, the road on which we now tread shall, in another twelve moons, be dead temporarily.