Mother spoke so well about making beds,
mocking me every morning with halo above my life.
Most times in life she said, play a fool with two heads,
make every moment have a sound even if it’s a fife.
Of all things son, know the womb owns the tomb,
often times life disguises dust to house our deeds.
Odd moments are never what death sweeps with its broom.
Old men taught us to note the ridge we plant our seeds.
Father your sons to prepare for your death,
fetch the ground and give them to eat.
For a thousand words may be all of your last breath,
feel the gift of the morning, feel of all the Sun’s heat.
Accept that we live in languages of time,
address your path preparing for the battle with hope.
Attack your herdsmen, when they make cows look like your rhyme,
and sharpen your tongue to be judged by the first Pope.