Helen Ocaya

Gaborone, Botswana

A Poet Never Dies

Silent Nature's wheel
loudly unfolds at every stage.
Birth. Death. Rebirth.
Each playing its turn
in well calculated hours.
Tonight, at a near distance,
deafening voices of mute tom-toms.
Testimonies of gratitude, sorrows or joys
in human hearts.
Dancer's footsteps, in rhythmic patter patters
as they dance, sing and swing
The bright full moon,
in immaculate depths of heights
as though in their attendance,
'haps a celebration of a birth
of a human newborn.;
'haps a merriment for a birth
of a seed season
'haps a marvel heralding a boys' circumcision
Tombstones. Graves. Dirges. Funeral rites.
All, landmarking ephemeral human lives.
Should all things perish
From under the skies,
a poet's literary remains
forever shall remain.
Eternal darkness in the earth beneath
Shall sunlight a poet no more
Creatures in the earth beneath
desperate quests for fills.
Of the poet's temporal,
May they enjoy their fills.
But the poet's thoughts, feelings, imaginations
for ever shall remain.
Posterities. Endowments. Valueless
artistic bequests.
Pluck melodious chords in noble hearts
A poet who dies in spiritual faith
does not die.
For, HE told mourning Martha:
HE was the Resurrection; HE, the Life.
Her, HE assured: Anyone who in HIM
Believeth, liveth forever
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