Funeral Poem by Wingless Fowl

They were mewling at the veranda of their house.
Clasping relatives, regretting the dead.
I stood there by a sapling, muddled.
Sobbing menage everywhere.

My peepers were thriving antsy, ubiquitous.
Poised to a casement, she was found.
Her face flushed jitteriness.
She mourned intermittently,
Clutching my mother.

They incensed the deceased after a bath,
And placed the body on a bier.
Four of the households,
Hearsing towards the grave.

Women outcried indoors, a melancholy.
She implored not to fortake the dead.
I sensed a throe in her voice.
They stood halting her rage.

Men in a queue wearing sacred hats,
All in white, upright; stirred hands.
An old man dispersed incense on all.
Four men, again, carried the bier.

Two men in the sepulcher,
Two on the bank of it, lying the dead.
I saw bamboo planks placed over it.
They ungrasped soil from their fist.