FEATURE ARTICLE

Sunday, September 18, 2022
projanefran@yahoo.com

COFFIN TALES (POEM)

rom the giant Iroko tribe
A sawyer sawed me first into logs
Then into the bunk of a timber merchant
Who owns me.

Although the workers were in a hurry
I preferred to move without worrying
I was so obedient and humble
I dared not make trouble.

The builders, known as carpenters
From their miserable lodgings
Went with wrinkled faces to the merchants
To buy the boards with grace.

With their saws and planes
An object of beauty they made me
I endured the agony
I glowed in glory.

The work progressed
As I was nailed in layers, I displaced others
After all the attachments
We live in divisions.

A lid is built for my bowl
When I am covered, I float
Now I become what I should be
Though terrible, coffin I should be.

Sometimes they set me up to be pretentious,
I am still what I should be
Somehow I look complicated
But what I am, I should be

I will be highly priced
For people who feel honoured
Despite their hesitation
They must buy me though they are desperate
They will take me to the mortuary without asking.

There the procession begins
Which some cyclists may lead
One after the other
Some motorists follow them.

Shots will mark our welcome
At certain points, some ovation
People are called to mass
Where I receive countless praises.

On a beautifully decorated bed
I am laid in honour
People march around my elegant bed
and speak praise and honour.

Inside the six-footed pit
They lay me with my guest in regalia
I endure the torments
I overlook all the discomfort.

After all this the feast begins
And the discotheque surpasses
Everyone goes to his residence
I am left all alone.

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