English Poem - MINE FUNERARY HILL. Print
Catch My Post
Thursday, 16 February 2012 19:16


When I come to you
Mine funerary ground,
I do not come in cobweb garments.
I turn my toes up
And come clothed with
Immortal diadem of freewill
round my bones and senews.
First, to totter on the brink
Of my grave before handing
In my last checks for lone couch.

I come as if swept to you
With broom, in food fads
Pica for earth.

Oh dying earnest!
When the grizzly terror stares
Me in the face I shall say to it
That actually I have been ill.
When the silver chain snaps
I fall to you like unripe figs
Off wind-swayed fig-trees.

I come soothed.
Calm like elk's dung
from which blind beettles
Withdraw at noonday.
Silence I do not trust
In my noonhigh.
But if in your sweet silence
Wind, with smooth cadence
Oozes off God's storeroom
First at tree leaves
Then with momentum
At their branches,
I heed to obsessive compulsive
Order.-remain quiete.

I come to remain soothed.
Mine whimsy epitaph claims,
"Maggots are in his nose!"
But be not into sleep deprivation.
Mine dirt I leave on the filthy rag
At thy foothills.

Stygian ferry,
When I come, I cross you
As if loaded on donkeys,
Stacked in bones and flesh
And body without soul
To my funerary hill.
Lie under the pavillion
Of it's friendly natives,
Under symphatizing tenderness
And dream a sweet by and by
The abode of God is not far.
A sweet by and by
When death is bound
In adamantine chains,
Wave a branch of palm-tree
High in my hand.

The hearts of maggots
are veilled with jagged scales
Hard like millstone.
Hard like Nimrod of old Nineveh,
City of many merchants
Than stars in the sky.
A city that piled up earth against itself
On the hills where dry leaves
russle and twigs remain scatttered....


Osam Ndege