Where Tomorrow Is Buried Poem by Henry Igbinedion

And beside him, lies a woman
who saved her finest cloth
for an occasion worthy of it.
They found it folded in her box,
Still smelling of the market,
and dressed her in it
when she could no longer admire herself.
Walk slowly here

Beneath the cross marked sepulchres,
Lies buried honours, degrees earned by lamplight
Titles announced to standing crowds
Walk softly here

Lying prostrate in darkened crypts
Are hands that hands that once signed papers,
mouths whose slightest word
sent others running.
Walk slowly here
As now,
The stone records their offices.
A bird settles and sings on it

What crowded places graves must be:
the life that was lived,
the life that was postponed,
the journey planned for next December,
the child already named
but never born.

Stand awhile.
Read a name slowly.
Once, somebody called it from a doorway
and supper was waiting.
Once, it was whispered in love.
Once, it was shouted through a hospital corridor
by someone who believed
a voice could call the dying back.

Then leave through the open gate.
There is someone you have been meaning to visit.
There are words you have kept too long.

Behind you,
the cemetery settles into evening,
holding all those people
who also thought
they would have tomorrow.