Eerie winds slithering over their breathing;
Flickering flames: little fireflies in the cold night.
Twinkling stars, no moon, five hearts beating,
Calling on the phantom that had inhabited his body;
Many bright dots on the slope flanking the apical church.

Mounds of earth lying by pounds of cement,
Crosses sticking out from each morbid rectangle,
Five brains wishing there was that sky crescent.
Five murmurs whispering the antique incantations.
In spite of the wind, the lurching little bright dots could not be botched.

Many frightened hearts beating, eyes observing the dark building.
What could five and candles be doing in the cemetery?
The dead are put to rest, and rest they should till the Lord’s wielding.
Five bodies ghastly illuminated by frail flickers,
Ten lips moving to disturb his rest.

Many cars honking below, noisy engines working;
Deep in their covers, many snoring unsuspecting;
The bats are squeaking, crickets screeching;
Nuptial croaks from the stream, that’s what some are hearing.
But some are eagerly watching,
In their eyes, the reflected bright specks are fluttering.
Five people are waiting in their hum for this appearing,
Five souls waiting to communicate with his ghost.

(c) Nyonglema