One day,
after it has died,
we will hold a vigil for the moon.

We will burn candles,
cheap mimics of its light,
& utter prayers we forgot to utter

while it still lived.
And we will say,
'Remember how it
spoke to us its bone-coloured dreams?
Remember how it gave us hope
when all else seemed savage?'

And some will say it was carved
from whale bone,
while others will swear it was a coin
flicked from the thumb of God.

And Death will come down the alleyways,
ringing its bells & swearing its oaths,
singing its story through
the windows of a ruined world.

And the executioner will cry silently
for those he has slain.
He will caress their shadows
& tell them to run.

But he, they, us,
will have nowhere to go,
no final memory
but a taste of the moon,
who once so sweetly told us
of what we might dream.

Omar Musa