I have longed for the finality of today,
and it is sure the heart of May,
the gracious month I first saw the ray,
and the painful day,
God made momma’s soul fly away—
yes, it was death and life’s day, that day.
Fate said, “One must die, one must live,”
and it made father’s old love take her leave.
Yes, I saw him sunken in sorrow on our cleave,
but he feigned delight to me to make me believe,
this life is only for us to live,
and not to leave when at eve.
So, poor him, kissed me goodbye to find my bill,
my tender self at the nurse’s goodwill.
Yes, she too was pained—I could feel her pain, until
a nurse rushed in to report an ill:
“It was a man who just went out to find his bill,
that was rushed in, bleeding on his cotton twill.”
The doctor ran out to save his life,
but just then there came the rife,
and my only blood was taken from his life of strife,
left with who will take care of my young life,
as nobody knew my parent’s relatives in life—
I spent my first night with a housewife.
Another nurse on her night shift,
she heard my tale and wept at my feet,
told sweet tales to keep me adrift
on the sea of my beloved and I’s sudden rift.
She sang lullabies when I cried and called me gift,
and asked in her care if I needed a lift:
“Young rose, you shall live in peace,
where there seems to be no bliss.
Choose life over fate’s early caprice,
and hence, I’ll make your woes surcease,
and call these painful times to ease
by the will of God, our peace.”
But fate heard her wish and there came a man,
my father’s friend who was a clergyman,
to whom I can say my story began.
He claimed he knew Brian and Susan,
and took me away from my lady’s plan:
“It is well, my dear Joanne.
Come to the Lord’s bosom,
and He will make you blossom.
So shall we go where the spirit says, ‘Come!’
Into my sacred kingdom,
where all woes are overcome
by man’s devotedness in my sanctum.”
My gentle self thought she found solace,
a life filled with hope and grace,
where no woes shall retrace my face,
as I have already seen fate’s vicious face.
I grew up in my helper’s place,
taught to deify God in my early days,
And resent all forms of vices,
no matter the rise
of its alluring eyes.
Yes, true I was to virtues trained in everyone’s eyes,
but fate triggered my cries
on my saviour’s cold demise.
I was four, I couldn’t tell what was happening,
daddy was shivering
and mummy crying.
Little did I know my saviour was dying,
and while Uncle Sam was praying,
I saw my helper cease breathing.
What then was virtue to me again
when my family was sunken in the sea of pain?
Yes, I asked the creator in my pain,
as daddy used to call Him ‘the main’:
“O God, what is Your gain
seeing daddy sleep beneath that rain?
Don’t You say, ‘Never shall darkness prevail the light
for those who are in Your light?’
Why was he denied of his right
as a messenger of Your light?”
And as if I have done wrong in the Lord’s sight,
death again took mummy away one cold night.
I was eighteen, a rosy and beautiful female,
calm and religious and the dream of the young males.
Uncle Sam was also in his twenties, such a gentle male
who tried to make us a living but all to no avail.
He was my helper’s only child and a lover of tales,
who told me part of my life when he was ail:
“Dear Joanne,” he used to say in sorrow,
“I know fate may deny me of seeing tomorrow,
to duel with life’s mean blow.
But take heart and brace yourself for this show
coming in the nearest tomorrow,
‘till then may you say farewell to your sorrow.”
But death saw him to a worthy submission,
fate was the nature of death’s allegation.
Life was harsh, so he used his discretion,
and joined burglars in my oblivion.
Yes, he was on his first mission,
when fate sought him death’s attention.
There was once an uproar in zone C,
so I went there in hunger to see
what had disrupted the street’s peace.
But I was dismayed to see
my brother burnt amidst some captured thieves.
I was grieved but never denied of peace,
For I thought what was it worth for
living within hope and grief since year four,
when death started taking all whom I adore,
denying them the stage of hoar.
Yes, I knew I was someone fate truly deplore,
and I was set to bear it no more.
So as fate was the writer of my birth,
so shall it be the one to write of my death.
But just as I was about to take my breath,
to drink from the flowing river of Lethe,
a man caught me calling on death,
and my hope was again awaken by Seth—
The man who took me off death’s tree,
and promised to drown my woes for free
in the heart of life’s fateful sea,
where I could from ill flee
if only I could to life agree,
and forget the thoughts of suffering’s degree.
Yes, Seth feigned kindness in my grieving week,
a good care justly for the weak,
but a pretentious defiler as I speak,
who gave me a child I named Derek,
and vanished to live on as a freak,
to which he prided himself unique.
And again, I was a prey of fate,
Seth’s child in my helpless estate.
Yes, my woes I knew he felt in my expecting state,
as a labouring mother whose woes were to exacerbate.
But I kept him for a reason I can relate—
fate could be mean but never is it of trait’s.
And my memories kept recalling my mother’s fateful hour,
where two states occurred in fate’s power:
life was mine and death was hers;
so was my tale seeming like hers,
in my longings to born my flower,
and surrender my soul to the owner.
Yes, I lived on alms till my child was born,
and it was there I knew mendicants in forlorn,
whose woes were as many as the chorus at dawn,
but lived on through the dusk and morn,
retired in fate’s wishful scorn,
and expecting the denier of the morning sun.
Yes, Derek, this concludes the tale of a passer-by,
your tale and what I have seen with these eyes.
But fate has given me later joy seeing your eyes,
as an end to these woes with your tries,
that has just raised you high—
but fate has told death in my ailment that it’s my turn to die.