In 1864, she was set unto a battlefield. A field of blood composition. Like an essay, she scribbled with pain; the labour of a child. She was covered with the moon, grey and darkness comforted her soul. Her voice, feigning under a square breast, she was halfway to the grave.
In 1866, when her child had gathered writing in the bones, she mirrored tears of her past. Tears borne out of shredded earth. Her past united with the soul.
In 1868, she lost the battle of hope to a lifeless second leg. It has germinated maggots and scorned fluids. Her child as cold as an exhausted cucumber, laid beside her. Flooded by pains, seduced by worries; her lament flushed into infertile soil. Roots mucked, shoots muted and aeration tanned. She was the rag that the cooking pot hated. Life to her, was only a snail’s dance.
In 1870, when she finally battled life without wages and deserted by her family; it was written on her combed lips, “death awaits”. When death had eventually risen out of the sea, roamed and aroused into fierce rage; sheets sprinkled and hearts lessened. Death was wicked. He was a mocker. He was a woe. Until he touched her by the duct, feeling her rotten leg and sandwiched whiskered child; it knew pity and shed tears.
In 1899, she was finally laid to rest. The earth sung, birds worshipped and rains quivered. With her son now a man, he wrote on her beautifully dead engraved face an epitaph.
“She was with us,
this soul of darkness,
was with us.
she who united the
agony of death
into beautiful life quotes.
she who gave death
what life took from her,
her songs, her cries
are these wreath of roses spread across
her smiling soul.”
©Nana Arhin Tsiwah
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