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Wednesday, 25 July 2012

I lost my President

To the souls of men that stands distance 
At the edge of  rivers before crossing  

Costumes of one's role and characters played 
Is soon without that much sway to hold, empty shells 

Indeed silence becomes of us all in time due 
So do not cry, it is more than what we can will 

When at the river's crossing our names are called 
To count, on account, like when Shepherds call sheep   

A sobering feeling us witness,  for one thy name mentioned 
Steps foot on the river's walk, vanishing behind the fog 

Cast as list of names on inscribed scroll for mortal ends 
To have been blessed with life, our names do appear 

Waiting patiently, closer to the river's edge on age count 
Yet as close, it is only when thy name is in mention 

That one with tickets crosses this rivers of spent life 
No one knows where it ends, to know true faith

The curtains of fogs hides view from inquisitive eyes 
So I do not know from a distance where my President went 

His name came up "Prof. John Atta Mills" on mortal scroll  
A' he crossed the river and vanished in the distance behind t' fog 
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  1. He looks like a good man, Kodjo, and you have paid him a loving tribute.

  2. I get a sense of the wonder facing us in death, as to where the journey might take us next. And how we none of us can escape the approaching of the river bank.


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