Immortality
The world’s a stage where mortals tread,
Brief actors bound by time’s thin thread;
We strut and fret, we dance and play,
Then fading whispers steal us away.
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Yet still we dream, of marks that last,
To cast our shadows on the past;
For fleeting lives will slip from sight,
Unless our voices outpace the night.
So we raise our children, seeds we sow,
In hopes they’ll bloom and boldly grow;
To shape the dreams we dared to weave,
To build anew, yet never leave.
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Our words, like stones, we lay in place,
To form a path for future’s race;
Our deeds, like rivers, carve the land,
And leave their prints upon the sand.
For what is life without the song
That lingers sweet and echoes strong?
A tale told by an idle tongue,
A restless wind where sense is flung.
But legacy — that fire we tend —
Defies the dusk that claims all men;
Our children’s hands will stoke that flame,
And whisper softly of our name.
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So let us build with truth and grace,
And plant our footprints deep in place;
For only love, and works that shine,
Can mock the grave and master time.
Osmund Agbo is a US-based medical doctor and author. His works include Black Grit, White Knuckles: The Philosophy of Black Renaissance and a fiction work titled The Velvet Court: Courtesan Chronicles. His latest works, Pray, Let the Shaman Die and Ma’am, I Do Not Come to You for Love, have just been released.
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