Song of the dead
Pity the man who fell down in the marketplace,
arrested by death in the bright of day. Innocent,
condemned to the common law of fate:
pity the man.
Pity the man.
Life is just a shelter for the soul.
Life is just a shelter for the soul.
Pity the daughter in the white room, who left her
illness in the envelope of her flesh. We,
the living, she
the bereft:
pity the daughter.
Pity the daughter.
Life is just a shelter for the soul.
Life is just a shelter for the soul.
Shacks collapse and mansions fall
but each time a baby’s born
a spirit comes in from the cold
Pity the dead, their privacy made public
by the absence
of their breath.
Pity the living:
the thin fabric of life just a tear away
from death.
Life is just a shelter for the soul.
Life is just a shelter…
Imphilo wemphema womuphefemolo
Imphilo wemphema womuphefemolo
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