Written by Charles Njikonye
Golden moon— low hanging— glistens on its edge, this nighttime
Souls, speed to catch comets/ invoke wishes to come true; because, in daylight, no comet will be seen— jet.
Lifeline floats like thread in gale— no exact direction
Eyes should fit hope/ not esprit blown like powder from air-dry palms.
Living is race to grave/ 6 feet below.
Horse, man— beautiful
Whilst, death awaits the end of this race.
On this darting skies/ humming tune, living becomes story of how/ what you died.