To the souls of men that stands distance
At the edge of rivers before crossing
Costumes of one's role and characters played
Is soon without that much sway to hold, empty shells
Indeed silence becomes of us all in time due
So do not cry, it is more than what we can will
When at the river's crossing our names are called
To count, on account, like when Shepherds call sheep
A sobering feeling us witness, for one thy name mentioned
Steps foot on the river's walk, vanishing behind the fog
Cast as list of names on inscribed scroll for mortal ends
To have been blessed with life, our names do appear
Waiting patiently, closer to the river's edge on age count
Yet as close, it is only when thy name is in mention
That one with tickets crosses this rivers of spent life
No one knows where it ends, to know true faith
The curtains of fogs hides view from inquisitive eyes
So I do not know from a distance where my President went
His name came up "Prof. John Atta Mills" on mortal scroll
A' he crossed the river and vanished in the distance behind t' fog
He looks like a good man, Kodjo, and you have paid him a loving tribute.
ReplyDeleteI get a sense of the wonder facing us in death, as to where the journey might take us next. And how we none of us can escape the approaching of the river bank.
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