The grave is beating a drum,
but the dancers are not dancing well.
The deaf ears have heard the vociferations of death;
His ghoul knocks banging on heart’s doors.
The doors of an empty hands.
Let it never over come
because these hands are empty.
They amass no gold
They have counted no pecuniary;
the values not known.
Their eyes have seen no glitters
and their hearts known no pleasure and delights.
The head is a grave
of creative worms,
that nothing has exhumed from its cemetery.
But its empty hands
must be filled with the rains of a filled head.
Poem By: JK ANYANWU