THE WAKE WITHOUT VIGIL
Time longer than rope
Chokes hearts dangling
In the reality of struggle:-
Grieving mothers and widows
Veil their grief in sagging bosoms
As they wail in excruciating silence:-
Fragments of men, void of hope,
View and count communal graves
Swelling with dirt burying the dead:-
(Buried are “The Wretched Of The Earth”)
In the neap tides of sorrows,
Mourners wade the airy blood
Of the children of Pilate’s hands:-
In the stale winds of time, “woe is me”
Cries the forsaken land–lamenting scriptures—
Echoing Freneau: “They saw their country’s woe:-”
Stacked like molded bread slices,
Decaying bodies release spores
Of death to weary eyed mourners:-
Like an aching bosom’s colloidal tears,
Life sags on, and Sisyphus-like children
Sit under the warrior ghost of lingering hope:
(Indeed, “At this wake…none keep vigil…None:-”)*
*A line from the poem, RECESSION, by Wole Soyinke
Time longer than rope
Chokes hearts dangling
In the reality of struggle:-
Grieving mothers and widows
Veil their grief in sagging bosoms
As they wail in excruciating silence:-
Fragments of men, void of hope,
View and count communal graves
Swelling with dirt burying the dead:-
(Buried are “The Wretched Of The Earth”)
In the neap tides of sorrows,
Mourners wade the airy blood
Of the children of Pilate’s hands:-
In the stale winds of time, “woe is me”
Cries the forsaken land–lamenting scriptures—
Echoing Freneau: “They saw their country’s woe:-”
Stacked like molded bread slices,
Decaying bodies release spores
Of death to weary-eyed mourners:-
Like an aching bosom’s colloidal tears,
Life sags on, and Sisyphus-like children
Sit under the warrior ghost of lingering hope:
(Indeed, “At this wake…none keep vigil…None:-”)*
*A line from the poem, RECESSION, by Wole Soyinka
At This Wake, None Keep Vigil…*
Time longer than rope, chokes hearts
dangling in the reality of struggle;
refuted victories mimic life
of children without mothers; widows veil
their grief, wailing in excruciating silence.
Fragments of men, void of hope,
count their dead; communal graves
swell with daily souls of the dust.
(Indeed, these are truly the wretched of the earth.)
In the neap tide of sorrows, mourners
wade the blood left by Pilate’s children.
In the stale winds of time,
woe is me, cries the fore shaken
land; lamenting the scriptures, echoing
Freneau: They saw their country’s woe.
Decaying bodies, stacked like sliced, molded bread,
released spores of death to praying mourners, praying:
give us this day, our daily bread…
Like a sobbing bosom void of tears, life sags on;
and the children of Sisyphus continue to struggle:
guided by the warrior ghost of hope.
In the meanwhile, the on looking world veils
Itself with its sacred sealed silence:
At this wake, none keep vigil…
None.
*A line from the poem, “Recession”, by Wole Soyinke
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