When my I heart throbs to a stop
I hope I would have shouldered a
cross worth a cause
Lived and left an imprint
undimmed by another man’s course
When I am gone
Like Buddha will find peace in my
grave
To have put myself at the
tutelage of the words
Learned to string them at dawn
When the lazy bone basks in his
wet dreams
When I am gone
Wish some things never remain the
same:
The learned heads who should have
known better
But fiddle the strings of
tribalism and
Put on a spectacle of myopia in
the name of partisanship
And tighten the nation’s purse-strings
to build lasting hegemonies
When I expire
Let them know
I was also vexed with the doyens
Who had ‘their heads abroad and
anus at home’
Leaving no gardens for the
budding bards to grow
Upon my exit
I will be glad to have left no
dreams deferred
Saw the world as a page where
every man must drop an ink
And gallantly defended Poetry as
a cult
Even if it never paid me much
