at Sabon Birnin, inside a moving bus,
I felt the solemnity of silence flailing
like curtain in the night.
the road, poured ahead like water spoke of how
the beginning of a journey could be the
end of another –I did not listen.
as the road moved with us, I watched through
tired glasses dry leaves bristling against desert dunes.
trees trapped in the solemnity of this silence, opened
their bodies to collect secrets of the moon.
and I thought to myself what light is left for the living?
the man in front of me stifled his lips to the driver’s
jokes in a way that said, if you take life a little serious,
death becomes afraid of you.
suddenly, a woman's voice fell onto the asphalt. I do not remember her name. how much memory can the dead carry? I tried to save her voice but it had trickled down to break the silence of the road. the road sang its own song.  and we were passed through the sudden ritual of blood and gun and fire.  I swear, before night cut through our bodies like knife, before we were shown the true nature of fire; how it torches what it touches, I knelt down to pray; to harden my flesh in supplication. still morning found me –a ghost waiting under the rain for night to guide me back into my grave.
                               the road                     arrived in ashes.