By Chipanga Daniel
“Not today,”
My dancing master would always say,
In his prime old age—
Clinging to the hope of time yet to live.
He rose with his walking stick,
As if nature still bowed to his will,
A smile carved on his wrinkled face,
Recalling the golden days gone by.
When the sun began to set,
He’d step out to admire God’s artwork,
Knowing that soon he’d drift into deep rest,
With darkness as his final companion.
Unaware that the hour had drawn near,
He sang glorious melodies,
Eyes lifted to the heavens—
Counting the stars in their endless shimmer.
He tallied each day and night
Like a child in arithmetic class,
Believing, in some quiet corner of his soul,
That he’d live again—
Somewhere beneath, in the underworld.