I do not know if this is true what I see:
I see in some dim, distant, desolate rock-hold
gathering peoples, driven as though by common fear.
A low mournful humming drifts with the breeze
of manhood tread, and eyeless turban-headed
in the lambent darkness, fire-fly brands moving.
This symphonious humming fills my heart
with deep remorse I cannot quite understand.
In a winding never-ending line they keep coming:
mesmerically drawn as in a living dream.
They do not speak but it seems they are in
common bondage bound and move to words of order.
Someone is dying or some great catastrophe
has befallen these earthen men – for they do not speak!
So many seem to come, but only a few are here.
Yet they keep coming and around
a little rock are gathered cross-legged, naked
scalded knees jagged out, a cluster of brown skinny men.
On the rock someone is standing and a little
behind him – I do not know what – a tree, a ragged pole
or dolmen! and yet here it glows, now a moment paly.
Fading far volcanic lights skip engulfing the sky.
I cannot say what this is all about.
I have a fear the Aliens are here.
And in the middle of this funereal happening,
a voice bursts out crying – 'EMILIANO'…
'Emiliano', and then a choking whimpering
and again – 'Emiliano……
Is this all that is left for me!’
T. Wignesan – Paris, 1957 – rev. (from Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: Rayirath Publications, 1961.)