Echoes of Memories

Cemetery 22, my ink lives on;
Nor is my mind poised, nor does it falter
In absurdity, a symptom of mirages.
The dead can't read or blink, it's true;
Yet I weave words that mend my heart anew.

Your voice echoes deeper than the sweat
Of labourers searching for diamonds,
A treasure beyond measure.
The dead may not read or write,
But in my heart, your love persists:
There's no space on your tombstone to engrave this poem,
Yet in my words, you'll forever be known.
Sorry, Mom, I'm still a poet.

Makhosonke Dhlamini