These tears were words my heart could not express
hiding the sorrow behind a mask of bravado and masculinity.
They say the apple does not fall far from the tree
a refuge from the harshness of reality
shade from the scorching sun in this African Savannah.
In the words of the priest
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust”
in this cycle of life death is a must.
But at times the Grim Reaper strikes too soon
to cut down the tree before the birds have learnt to fly.
We were meant to soar high like eagles
yet are left to wander below like kiwi.
I guess every teardrop is a waterfall
and each poem a eulogy to a fallen hero.
Real men don’t cry
but boys must cry for their fathers.
“In loving memory of Job.O.Mola”