So much water has passed under the bridge
With it a part of me
Her soul drifted with the tides
Now in conclave with my father

Tales of ancestors are now sweeter
Rites of passage with a touch of your hands
Not one that ashed immigrants denigrated
Morning yet on creation day
Achebe's rebuttal
Of their vague distortion of our past

My prayer with you in mind
More potent than beckoning their ancestry
Whose hands we never shook
Or knew our pains or our laughter

Well as for us here
We are in passage of purgatory
Certain of a better afterlife
Case of granite covering a tombstone
Of mortals overlooking it
And flowers and greenery around it
Of tides and streams beyond