By Shem Onderi
Death,
prepare for your ceremony.
I want to know your shape.
So I take your measurements—
design you a fitting dress,
if woman—
or an apron with shiny colors.
So you can be seen from far.
So humans can run
the moment they spot you.
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Little is known about you—
your residence,
your permanent address.
So I write,
pleading:
leave humanity be.
You strike anywhere—
on highways,
at home,
in hospital beds,
at blackspots.
Few can describe your behaviour.
Many say you’re dark,
a towering presence.
Death,
spare us your abrupt calls.
But you spare no one.
The young, who know nothing.
The aged, who fear dry bones.
You tear families apart.
Children orphaned.
The old mourning on their mats
when you strike.
Death,
tell us what you like.
Whisper it.
We’ll serve you plenty.
I think you are replaceable.
We can do without you.
You need not live among us.
But if you must stay,
and strike—
warn us.
So we prepare.
So we plan to mourn.
Let it be an event.
Still—
Death is peaceful.
It’s the journey that troubles us.
See,
funerals were once
a season of mourning.
No food.
Only tears
and silent words
to the dead.
Fast forward—
one death too many.
And humanity embraced you.
Mourning you
became a profession.
Food came first.
Planning to mourn
became an enterprise.
The politician rejoices
where mourners gather.
For not all cry—
some are cashing in.
One day,
someday,
humanity will gather—
to mourn you.
So prepare.
