Who will remember me when I’m gone?

Who will tell my mother to be strong?

Who will wail for me a funeral dirge,

When my life has taken its ultimate stage?

Who will it pain most upon the news of my passing?

Who will mourn for me like a pharisee fasting?

Who will look me in the coffin and bid me goodbye?

Who will wish I haven’t diminished their smile?

Who will tell the world of my strength, not of my flaws?

Who will tell them about the bard I was?

Who will be kind and engrave this epitaph on my tombstone,

“If you once loved me, always love my dry bones”?

But you need not do these things,

For I’m a poet, I cannot die.

My eyes will only be shut for a while.

So, tell the messenger my death news is a lie.

Tell him that I have gone to dine with my ancestors.

When the sun rises at midnight, I will be coming back.

This was written by our contributing writer, Emmanuel Gleekia.