Revdanda, encore
In bottled memories I often look back At the spangles Of Revdanda’s gold – You searching the past In the Portuguese ruins While I stared, at a cricket match With the villagers None of whom cared Who won or lost Content to be there To feel Sunday on the breeze; Perhaps they didn’t even care For Sunday Or the breeze Mere words of the writer To fill his story You returned, urging me To join you on the ruins But I don’t stir, I hold your hand Look, here’s happiness Within our reach Revdanda’s ruins Caressed by salt of sea Can wait, Rather, let us judge matches Where we will always win; In the melting golden spangles Of Revdanda’s sands…
