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Rasaq Malik Gbolahan

Friday, September 27, 2013.

there is a song we must play
at the funeral of a poet -

for words are winds
that blow on the dark roads
of farewell

there is a flute; a lost flute
bearing the voices of the bereaved ones;
bearing the testaments of crushed skulls,
exiled dreams at westgate

there are trumpets to blow
for we no longer fire the guns;
when we scan the eyes of the earth
there are scars in the hearts

funeral is the perfect word.


funeral is the perfect word; funeral is when
we sit on stones of blood
demarcating the house of weeds;

when we trade silence for sermons
of forgetfulness

like a city in the dark
we grope for torches
to dress your coffin

the poet dies
not with his words.

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