The Memorial
It reminds me a paper, a bleached piece
That came folded, holding the golden
That carried most, the little memories
Of what your pumper, carried for the golden
The little memories, you held on a fork
About my in short, fought mine heart not
For if I could cries, and if not stroke
For what you pumped, unfolded my sort
That tiny paper that, opened mine eyes
To squint and read, and read and read
And read again, closing my eyes I read
For what you pumped, sowed the seed
I thought to say, and nots but no
I hesitated to not, by read another
For the line so shook, the others below
Of what your pumper, for long together
Copyright © Moses Kisiang'Ani Makhakha | Year Posted 2019
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