If only I could prune my true origin,
From whence my forbears came,
I'd accept not to be cleansed.
At the outskirts and be naked,
Sheafed only in shea leaves.
Who shields the object of my pride?
My hair-s shaved to a barren land.
My eyes, scarlet from weeping and fear.
A kind soul to wipe away a tear.
Dead is dead, hear a deadpanned.
And unto dust, must he return.
But his spirit lives unturned.
She must for years mourn,
She must be clothed in gabs,
black as the nights within her.
The ghost remains hers alone.
A shroud, so dark to keep her dead
To prove her innocence of complicity.
Give her nights with a living death.
Cleanse her of his dying breath.
Cure her of his love maim.
Her peace is set ablaze.
But she hopes to live.
Beshrouded to bury her same love.
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