You still cling to
the trunk
Of the Great Old Oak
That stands above all
the memories
Of those spring days
of that cursed year.
You made me a
vagabond
Wandering in search
of your ruins
and the monuments
that you had built
In the dark
underworld of my dreams.
You are cursed.
The little child of
the Old Banyan
Curses you and your
great Old Oak,
Enveloping all the
memories
Of the halfway houses
of those
Drought-struck lands.
Like the west winds
blowing past
the high tower on the
hilltop,
Tonight the air comes
creeping
Sweeping all memories
forever,
Cursing the
melancholy days.
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