Olukemi Omoyeni

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Olukemi Omoyeni
Saturday 23 March 2024

We died with them

My mother one time sang of death

The coldness that will one day visit our warmth,

She says it is solely - my father confirmed it, 

Children will not matter, she mutters.

She sings she refuse to go on such journey abruptly, 

More abysmal to her; death for "ungrateful" children. 

I sang along, I believed her,

It is lonely,

The bier, the pyre, the lyre, and everything death conjoined,

We are grateful, though our lips may be the least active,

We do, not say.

How much their warmth carried us,

In the cold lonely trodding of life.

They died and rose again, for us to live!

They killed many things to give us life,

For some they killed their dreams,

Some their pleasures.

Becoming a roaming ghost of their real self, 

To make us a valuable living human.

We see, smell, and touch it, always. 

The sacrifice, like the propitation on the road.

When they see real death, 

When they journey to the blues and black,

We die with them,

Or at least a part us.

Contrary to my mother's song

We die, many times in our lifetime 

Because of their death.

It's never the same again,

That part of us where they built a fortress of love,

Remains numbed forever,

It is lonely,  but more lonely is us - the loved,

Because that part of us dies forever. 


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