Funerals Poem by Naveed Akram

Force a group of dwellers to speak,
They surround us as competitors
With the funeral games, what they are due.
The death is nearly surprise, always great,
Beginning an arrest of mood, forming fully.
This is like playing dice and being rewarded,
Pushing pens and reading books of gravity.
The harvest is gathered, the grain in the barn,
But hair stands on the head with the awe for eternity.
May the throat be a jar of fruit, to be consumed
And the funeral is now on, the forming of society.