PAUL WAUGLA WII
The lone villager came home one afternoon.
It was so comforting to be on that familiar road
That led to that hamlet
Across the tumbling, crashing Singanigle River.
Walking along the path
On that melancholy day
The drizzle and the mist hung like steel
Upon the flank of the imposing Tokma Range.
The lone villager’s heart is full of longing
For what is he longing?
Unlike days gone by
The mist and the drizzle that descend now
Upon the face of the Tokma slopes
Caress not the bereaved villager’s heart.
If ever one’s mood can be triggered
By reminiscences of what used to be
A beautiful, innocent hamlet
Beside the churning, tumbling Singanigle River.
That beautiful, innocent hamlet
Has not stood the test of time.
What calamity has erased it into near obscurity?
An insidious act, in 2002, by men on the warpath
It is so vile an act
To scar what has been built over time
To smother our civilization
Before it has reached its maturity
The lone villager is longing for everything
That he knows cannot be replaced.
The passage of time cannot erase the memory
Of his beautiful, innocent hamlet by the Singanigle River.