The cold dead wind saunters in this bleak land <br />Where i dwell breathing inert air <br />Ears-fed by the tremulous voices of the dead, their tremulous hands <br />In gloves of numbness serene with the soil's care <br />Grip my hands, communicating coldness <br /> <br />The land of the dead, the land of rest, <br />Filled with tales of grief and sorrow. <br />The bones decaying in this soil have undergone the test <br />Of life's diminuendo, of the gaping burrow; <br />Some died and died, some died and rose again. <br /> <br />Some died and died, <br />Now they are wrapped in the earth's shawl. <br />In their pity, the living sands above them have cried; <br />And on the walls of their paralyzed heart, they scrawl <br />Words of sorrow, alphabets of penitence. <br /> <br />Others died and rose again <br />Like weeds, after bush clearing in the farm <br />Patiently growing again despite the pain <br />Like liberated trees unafraid of harm. <br />Their immortal minds have sailed through the tide of death. <br /> <br />On the shaky frontier of life, here i stand, on the borders of death <br />Come fondle me, living winds conveying life and strength <br />And i will come out of this land, alive with living bones, <br />Before the fire of life on its candle, gently burning <br />Is killed by the dews of the morning.<br /><br />Warrith Olawale<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-land-of-the-dead/
