Silence welcomes me as I make my entrance,
So much to see in an instance,
The stillness that meets me, too calm,
Still like water from our local river, or dam.
Not astonishing though, it’s a morgue, not a party,
The floors are squeaky clean, nothing dirty.
The departed have no tale,
Kins outside, all they do is wail.
My visit is met by dubiety.
I can smell mistrust in the air,
The skeptic attendants pose to study me,
My dark arms, my short, black kinky hair.
Their suspicious eyes follow me as I make slow steps,
I’m slower than the snail in my movement.
Some here died having no achievment.
Who is this? I hear them murmur amongst themselves.
The dead are quiet, calm, but observant. A heedful lot.
They notice me an alien, an anonymous being in their midst.
I’m incognito to them.
I detect something in the atmosphere, they like no foreigner,
I see them gather, I see the dead souls come together,
To talk about me, an outsider.
I’m now a subject in their discussion.
My unannounced visit sure has some repercussion.
They are planning to send me out.
That, I’m sure without a doubt.
It’s now obvious, I’m not needed here. No love,
I don’t harm, I try to plead, they won’t listen,
They don’t understand my language,
What’s my main aim at my age?
The dead speak a different language from the living.
I descry something.
Bubbly and ebullient souls floating and swinging freely in the air,
Souls which deeply felt that life was anything but just or fair.
Maybe on their way to purgatory,
But that’s not for me to worry.
The souls are glad that they have left this sad planet,
Others are dejected Spirits, sullen, unhappy to leave this lively universe.
I took a walk to the morgue, out if curiosity,
And in an attempt to mingle with the people of the other world.
I wanted to have a feel of their world.
Wasn’t successful though, they were cold towards me.
Didn’t want to share their story.
I’ll make another trip there soon,
But just after I’ve gone to the moon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem