The Hereafter by Hopewell Seyaseya

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The serenity of the graves, the air,

The stones, the engraved names and dates;

The stillness of the cemented atmosphere

Imprison the dead in the forest of death.

Is flesh and blood the source of distress

And joy? To be burnt without a yell

Or rejoice without a sound

Is for the tacit skulls underneath to explain.

And there I long to retire for the burden

Is heavy even for atlas,

And no simons of Africa will take the load off me.

My brother’s unmarked grave

Only takes me to a dream and I get no closer to him

Than in my first death, and homeward I turn

To the whims of life and the certain death of man.

As the night closes in on my first life, and

My flesh and blood forewarns me of the impending

Day of revelation, through the chambers

Of my undoubting mind, I behold a graceful run

Of brotherly spirits, an everlasting embrace and

A perpetual joy of souls awaiting me in the hereafter.