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(A short poem intended to serve as food for thought for our politicians)   
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What epitaph will hung
On this icy grave
When life’s final nightfall
Throws you its blind spot?

What chorus dares to ring
In the silent ears
Shrouding the deep darkness
Of life’s last black hole?

What bird will sweetly sing
And what bird will hoot
Will it be nightingale
Or will it be owl?

How can a man’s back spine
Or hair on his head
Be cast by his own eyes
But by back mirrors

As the mirrors cast you
And the sounds echo
Into your inner ears
So will they engrave
You read the epitaph
You hear the chorus
Feeling sweet to your ears
Where close, sore where far

However they appear
Clearly or twisted
Shadows in the mirror
Are cast images.
Source: Otchere Darko

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