As a tenant
In the womb’s tenements
Of this planet
I will never have the rights
To own a plot
There is nothing I can be so sure
Of except one thing I was born with.
No matter how hard I try,
No science nor ritual rites,
No divine virtue,
Or Dominic traits,
Would terminate the threat.
Coming to earth,
I carry my inevitable death.
No matter hard I wish,
Nor pretend the threat would diminish,
So I could dish it out in to the sluice
As rubbish,
It won’t go away and vanish;
Hire an Angel or Beelzebub as a sleuth,
It is an albatross round my neck,
As a noose.
Belay Ambelay