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| The best souvenir that speaks |
And so the
chapter began,
So drastic
as the preceded rubbles,
Amid
shards, dust, soil and scraps—
Where to
point but to ourselves, the fated ones.
Not to a
single cause,
But a
sequence of negligence,
How a
dust-blinded one could see
How the
sudden gust got him inundated thus—
The traces
gone in an instant but mere blind speculations
Like the yonder
wild-fire devouring in vain.
If the failed
characters of the story,
In their ghostly
tableau to the fits of piercing emotion,
Could be resurrected,
They would
have gained ours back this instant,
For, if not,
what their return for?
But the savior
we have,
Whom we count
on by that many complacent audiences.
The ill-fated
yet worth-exposed we are,
Yet, even in
our handful, why we falter—
From practical
hearts in him to such deeper senses
That matter
now, this instant, and on ever.
Not flattened
yet rumbling
Oh, our true
senses!
Oh, our greatness!
Oh, our oneness
in both joys and sorrows!
Oh, this so
needy self-awareness!
Blind not
by a brocade-draped pride,
But, yes, remember
ever!
And so the
chapter began,
So drastic
as the preceded rubbles,
Amid
shards, dust, soil and scraps—
Where to
point but to ourselves, the fated ones.
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