Tonight, the sky is pale yellow
like the skin of a mourning mother.
Tonight, the night is dark, darker
than erstwhile nights, the crickets
chirp—enfolded in the shawl of silence.
Tonight, our mouths sing threnody
like a serenade, tonight we remember men—cloaked in death’s arm
while battling inequity, tonight we light candles,
burn them with incense from the censer of memories.
Tonight, we wear grief as velvet,
our eyes red with remorse,
heads heavy with memories of departed souls.
Tonight we write for men,
for women, for boy child, for girl child
who faded like dust from the
face of earth tugging injustice.
Abdulmueed is from Nigeria. He’s an avid reader, a staunch writer and lover of nature.
Photo: Anselm Kiefer, Die Ungeborenen