Death At A Funeral Poem by Martins Akhoeneto

Now, hot cannon wreck this street in styles,
After been laid on slabs of stone
With bloated limbs. Remains, full blown
In this several weeks of melting eyes



Numbers of motorcade triggers traffic
And women thrilling natives in foreign tunes, glide
On one foot aiding another in the stride
Like an Ukpi drummer at his peak.



All attendants came to a still
Digesting chants of this fellow in heaven’s
vest
Spell-bound to the rectangular shelve of rest
On the lap of earth, once till.



Opening doors and fountain of thirsty tears
We sang accolades, obeying tradition, rites
Or this spirits, parading the nights
Orienting our spheres, yet eating our tears.



This nasty tenet, the credo of typical Africa
Eating up our sense of thought like larva
Gorgeously robed in our own painful festival
What silhouette of death, we are.