The Question
Then she asked:
‘What becomes of his dead?’
And to her, he replied:
Soft the supple of life
That winds blows to plants
For in the wind lives the soul
The spirit that birth our lives
Like the grains you plant in soil
That body is the land
The womb the wind had sowed
The fruits and seeds we are
To grow and blow to life
But when the land is infertile
The wind again will come
To take the fruit away
And blow the seeds to grow
In womb of others it plants
Like grains to land to grow
Laid is him, not dead
Just a womb infertile
Copyright © Abimbola Mosobalaje Davis | Year Posted 2015
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