Threnody for Kofi Awoonor
Friday, November 22, 2013.
journeys begin and end at the beginning,
We question the place where life
When a flowery pen’s ink was
snatched and spilt;
Westgate’s mall melodies turned
For this passage, cries and tears
Inks of bards wail and chant dirges.
Yours was not a war of words, but
so rich and rare. Flowing from your
fount of poesy,
They touched thirsty tongues and
minds with wit and foresight.
Your eyes are closed, but open.
Your ears are stopped, but alive.
No bard bows to death wholly.
You have left earth’s crust.
But your works are born again.
Sleep; may you find rest in these