Under this lurking warped branch, waving
to my closing eye, I chose to will a poem,
to anyone that read it – let them know, my bones
have heirloom the way of the elders; if you
are patient, you can relic the pieces. To my mother
I have no coffin neither to my bedridden body, after I
have sand. The wars I fought are like the moments
you were urinating on me, like a pebble from the bowel
to the anus. If the caterpillar had known the day
the butterfly would sprout, it would have glued its door.
in this part of the earth, I have watched the lilies
grow & die without planning for it. I saw the birds
pricked on chicks – these have only little eye for life.
I have watched my gore volcano. I have become so
frailed, & weak than brittle. The best, I see now, is
to allow grass root on my face. If you see this poem,
know that I have no variant for dying. My kismet
have herald this day, long before the earth knew me.
This poem was published in the February 2022 edition of the WSA magazine. Please click here to download.
Read – Some Measure of Design – A Poem by Simon Ngu’ni, Zambia
