Consider the wealthy man how he weeps

For his stolen gold; the bereaved mother

How keenly bemoans her abiku daughter

Who at the cradle of the earth now sleeps;

Witness the tree at the village-square

Which harmattan has slain her green leaves,

Tossed by the obdurate wind here and there,

North and South he all her children scatters, and thus her bereaves;

‘Dara, yet what seasons go blow a forceful return,

Still filling the boughs with freshest of leaves;

Sun which sinks his head in twilight, still rears and begins to dawn,

And with his rich golden balm, the sides of lame earth new relieves:

So should the springtime of your love withdraw from my heart,

All season I’ll lose, as those fresh leaves from their stalk sometime part!


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By Sydney Chesterfield on May 5, 2016 · Posted in Letters To Shindara by E.R. Chesterfield, Literary, Poetry

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