Martin- Grace Mangi
Cover him over with daisies white
And eke with poppies red,
Sit with me here by his couch to-night,
For the First-born, Love, is dead.
From death of a first born By Paul
Unbury his body from the dark waters of the gutters
Give him a hand, out of the gutter
With open arms, receive him into yours even though,
He smells like unwashed urinals near a slaughter house or,
Like the gutters of Limuru, full with filth to the brim.
Lift him up , take him home.
He is Martin after all
Martin is like Luther after all
He wasn’t forever going to be ,
The one who got away, the one who slipped away into,
The mystery of life nearing death,
Into the suffocating smelly gutters of Limuru.
Martin is Luther after all!
Prepare a wide table and a long bath,
For the First-born, is back.
Martin is back from the gutters
He sits by the window in his room
Quiet and still like the little potted cactus on the sill
Probably lost in introspection
Not a trace of regret or fear
On his now clean-shaven face
He knows it’s over, _ the race
Of life survival or extinction.
Freedom and hope for now
Forget the freedom,
Of dark deathly consuming loneliness
He has found peace and freedom
Rare states of mind in the gutter kingdom
Martin, a name well chosen to fit perfectly,
Martin Luther King reincarnate!
Martin is back from the lonesome abyss beneath the gutters
Martin is back to being, the liberator, the dreamer, the leader
And dauntless soul he was meant to be
With a deep rooted conviction, that he’s finally ,
Out of the gutters!
Now in a world of blue skies and green fields
His whole being, death is speaks not
Sends off a vibrant aura like pristine mama nature does
Butterflies fleet about him and now he smells of a tea farm
Like the scent that comes with the first drops of rainfall on dry earth
Like the scent of pine, eucalyptus, rain on green grass
Like life itself…