What shall be inscribed on your stones,
when you remain a pile of bones?
What shall be said of your past,
when death takes you home at last?
As for me, these words are mine;
And they shall last like a verdant vine.
They shall nourish famous flowers,
whom shall deck the peak of saving towers.
When the time of my youth is fled,
and grey hairs sojourns on my head;
I shall have no after-fears,
for I have lived for human affairs.
Life's beauty heaves on your palms,
and men shall write of you, pleasant psalms;
If you bequeath it your best,
in lucent love and wholly zest.
What shall be inscribed on your stones,
when you are all a pile of bones?
"Blessed memory of divine grace, "
Or shall you thrive with no living trace?
David O. Olusanya
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem