| Brace up, ol' chap, don't despair. Our fortune is sure yet to come, Though grief, like a nightly church spire, Is skewering into your heart. Don't mix up a cease with decease, man Our daybreaks will blare as before. Your sorrow's in no way a reason It's only one more stair of yours. The stairs, underfoot, go on creaking: It's through - quit it out and forget. The stairs, underfoot, go on creaking, And years are a load up your back. You smoke non-stop in a tizzy, And shadows lie under your eyes, Beside you, a camp-bed freezes, A black bird goes round in the sky. By these shabby stairs, long abraded, By grief, separation and tears, We clamber, impatience disguised in The eyes bathed and withered by winds. Remember nocturnal sights on The porch of high northerly lands? Remember, we rocked forest stars on Abysmal pitch-black eyes of lakes? Brace up, ol' chap, don't you putter. Toast us and sing merry songs. Yet, in the forthcoming battles, You're to come off, safe and whole. The morns have already broken - The ones that will bring you to life. The bullets, by now, have been moulded - The ones that will whistle by. |
