a poem by UKAONU DORIS OBIANUJU, Nigeria

What a sweet big thing 2 watch d months go by a year, keeping our fingers crossed 2 celebrate that special day of our birth..but we are yet clueless of our death day. That cold grasp sure we know is inevitable..yet we moan and are all sullen when it takes.. If wishes were horses, we would even ride an ocean to make it clear our demise to that who loves to take in pain..

Sometimes I sit all by my self and wonder why men cry when its been taken.."Stolen" most preferred word by the stunged..,

who ever made death the finish.. Who ever said the dead is not happy..who ever said the dead wants to be mourned... Who knows if its an utopian place,far better than mother earth they've found themselves..who even says the dead can't live again...all these I ask...death in its misery..whatever the Case be..,its always going to be from cradle to grave, for that's the only certified answer we know.

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