Poets' Corner
The Lone One
His was spectral;Lonesome.
It was loathsome.
The ordeal, as it were,
Of a war time veteran.
With fainted lips and eyes
Uplifted to the skies;
He said loud and bold,
"I am dying".
To his now small and tickling heart;
Was left nothing right.
Only this God, jungle and his hat.
Then necked death.
This was the hinging moment,
Of so much a brave doer.
Conquerer of untolds.
Now left without a monument.
Begat he of dirt and flies.
Things he once defied like lies.
Buried in the sand;
Was his hair, and lovable hands.
Never were they so tired,
On the horizon;
Emerge this calm.
Unexpected of any brutish beast.
A tear fell into the sand,
And he retired;
Into the shell of unconsciousness.
Then, silence.
Once, and for all;
Lips parted and sublime,
A voice cried!
Pardon for me.
The blood-stained hands
Of this scarlet figure,
Never yielded to prayer.
Or so they seemed.
Till God stole them away
written 5/6/75
Akeh-Ugah Ufumaka
Bronx, New York.
