When I die, but
I can still feel an ant crawl on my skin
Hear the hands of the clock as it ticks.
If I could still distinguish between beef and cow skin.
Hear babies cry and cock crows.
Tell the difference between caps and crowns.
If my beautiful smile meets your gaze and we shook hands
And could still explore the beauties on the land.
I have taken my own soul as a procrastinator.
I buried myself in time and stabbed my destiny in the eye.
My hands wrote my fate of horror.
I deserve no pity, I am a criminal worthy of this judgement.
Do not pray for mercy, this is a wrath I brought upon my own soul.
But, do take lessons from my life, a life not well lived.
But, When I die
And rolled side to side while been washed,
If I could not blink off a fly perching my lids,
And you hear my mother say, ‘she was a promising child’
Or my friends spill out all of my plans and struggles.
When you read a piece titled “Her last poem”
With tears rolling down your eyes like a dysfunctional tap.
When my name becomes sour on lips and I become ‘the body’
It is my Lord who has plucked off my soul.
The second hands had reached stop. I have alighted from the ride.
Please pray for me and pay my debt.
Shroud me in cream and perfume me with musk.
Pray for mercy, that I may answer the angels correctly.
And take lessons from my life, a life full of dreams.
Yet to sprout!
© Aaminah Qasim Oniwarere
2:41pm, Sept 17th, 2019.
English 
