By Mory Keita
An old woman once told me,
“You'll die, boy. Do not fear the dark.
Death is nothing.
What matter is how you will be remembered, your legacy.”
I wonder, my love, will you love me?
will you love me when darkness falls upon me,
When I am cold and still like a frozen fish,
when I shall speak and sight no more?
Will you love me when I am rotten and stinky,
When maggots shall crawl in me, feast upon my flesh like crows?
when I am but dust, Then my love,
will you hold me in your wings and murmur
into my ear,“I love you.”
Feel my glacial skin against your fairness,
Press your lips against mine
And bite the dust as you now bite my lips?
Will you wait for me until the afterlife, if there is one?
Will you spend your old days reminiscing upon the springs and summer of our days?
Will you even cry for me for years or a couple of a months?
Will you remember me or fall into another lover's arms?
Then my love, What is love? what is death? why live? why love?
For love is death and death is oblivion
and in oblivion we fall.