at home, we speak not of martyrdom <br />nor of men who must die to be remembered <br />with imperial drums in a Sunday service <br />the dreamer never dies and they don’t just die <br /> <br />so, if we must die in this Missouri hills <br />with half heels in half soled shoes <br />clomping up and down Harlem streets <br />let us die a Youngman’s death shaking rivers <br />and with these rich dark root fingers recall Home <br />the clan of the brave, gallant with stores of Dreams <br /> <br />let us breathe the breath of Agboklu <br />and the women mourn our wry-filled nights <br />let us be the Sun from Africa that tags the western sky <br />melting souls and voices to squat in the mud of shame <br /> <br />let us drown our hearts in floods of Hope <br />to keep our mothers’ wombs warm <br />even in chilly strange lands <br />let us be remembered on village lanes <br />as sweet, even in gust and sore storms <br /> <br />let us not die in the deep, deep waterlog <br />of Holy Water and Extreme Unction <br />speaking famous-last-words <br />that mown down our frames through dawns <br />and peacefully took Breath from our pleading Lungs<br /><br />Padmore Enyonam Agbemabiese<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hell-is-nobody-s-home/
