By: Andrea Myinga
We do an epic march to the far land, that’s us in me.
Singing songs of warriors towards the unknown enemy
The pitch is high enough to reach the next generation
And danced to by the dead, who lie down with dreams yet unmade
For the trending children of the earth have ears that hear not
And possibly none of the dances sound best to them since.
Maybe in their graves they’ll give a warm welcome
With a dinner table graced with five courses,
And enough popcorns in the parlor for a movie
That one telling a tale of the fate, horror and mystery,
Keeping it short, five minutes will no longer leave each at ease
For life is wearisome, nobody knows where to own the smile again.