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Soon the bashful pink of the almond
Blossom will be out,
Unmindful of the bayonets.
Soon the copious brow of Zabarvan
Will again be a rash of insistent
Green, and the Chinar
In the Hamza lawn stand resplendent
In undented assertion of being.
Soon squadrons of spry swallows
Will swoop off the river bank
At hint of fading light,
Renting the calm with expansive
Chirp, as walkers along the Bund
Will do their time-honoured pacing.
Soon the silver streams will yet again
Flow, singing their way through
Polished pebble and immoveable
Rock, honed into human shape.
Soon, wizened, crinkled faces
Of ancient wisdom will hold
Their heads to the blue sky
And answer to the call of the Muezzin,
Knowing that, however the boots
Maraude the streets and lanes,
The stillness of eternity will never
Desert the depth of their souls.
I alone will rue the absence
That gnaws at my innards,
Missing life in the desert sands
Of hollowed advancement.
Give me back, now past eightieth year
Of my life, a day of that Spring
In the Xanadu of my beginning,
And let it not end till I breathe
A long breath as I go, inhaling
The divinity of that sentient expiring.