Slow I wail on the road of no return
Like a soul that departs from its body with no respect
Silence I talk to get
To soothe the pain I didn’t prepare
In the jungle of no trees I sit
To prepare for my last breathe I take
Mother! Mother! I cry
Thunder storms that wawl
Slow I speak
but distance death drags me on
Help! Help! Help! I pull
But in the midst of no where I creep
My last respect they give
But silently I sit to weep
Very well they wish I match on
But poorly I know I live on
Mansions I suffer to build
But in the coffin I didn't prepare to live
Nothing will ever seem right
In this game of no fame
Categories:
wawl, africa, death, memory,
Form: Elegy