When journeys begin and end at the beginning,
We question the place where life vanished.
When a flowery pen’s ink was snatched and spilt;
Westgate’s mall melodies turned sour.
For this passage, cries and tears bear testimony.
Inks of bards wail and chant dirges.
Yours was not a war of words, but thoughts
so rich and rare. Flowing from your fount of poesy,
They touched thirsty tongues and filled
minds with wit and foresight.
Your eyes are closed, but open.
Your ears are stopped, but alive.
No bard bows to death wholly.
You have left earth’s crust.
But your works are born again.
Sleep; may you find rest in these songs.
© Echezonachukwu Nduka 2013