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When our tears are dry on shore
and the fishermen carry their nets home
and the seagulls return to bird island
and the laugther of the children recedes the night
there shall still linger the communion we forged
the feast of oneness which we partook of.
There shall still be the eternal gateman
who will close the cemetary doors
and send the late mourners away.
It cannot be the music we heard that night
that still lingers in the chambers of memory
It is the new chorus of our forgotten comrades
and the halleluyahs of our second selves.
By Poetry from the Jungle from The Ceylon Press
When our tears are dry on shore
and the fishermen carry their nets home
and the seagulls return to bird island
and the laugther of the children recedes the night
there shall still linger the communion we forged
the feast of oneness which we partook of.
There shall still be the eternal gateman
who will close the cemetary doors
and send the late mourners away.
It cannot be the music we heard that night
that still lingers in the chambers of memory
It is the new chorus of our forgotten comrades
and the halleluyahs of our second selves.