Home » Verse » An Old Fashioned Lament

An Old Fashioned Lament

My people, ancient people, who remember nothing –
Who do you sing to now when the creeks are yellow;
Is it worth praying after the black stones are gone;
Are trucks from Assam the new heralds?
Your sacred mountain is in a Bangla depot;
The site of your lovemaking is under construction;
The orchards, which drew Syrian traders, rot away;
The known tack you had die with your shell;
Now amnesia only, only wood fire;
Fruit supplanted by famine, brook by mire.

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