When a soul dies, its body
is said to be buried beneath ground &
farewell shall be done. but, how do we take
care of the bodies that burnt like roasted
meats on their way home? Last night,
I stretched my hands to the vast sky,
maybe God will see my pregnant eyes,
how I became a wanderer, marketing
the paths to Sokoto from Kwara &
return my either –dead or alive– son.
today makes a year that I wished him safe trip
with God's name. then turned to a whistling wind
I don't know if God had welcomed him or
he's somewhere, jagged like a withered flower.