The Chronicle Gambia
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The Children Who Mourn

And even the night as well — does not with its deafness —

In the blink we watch it undress,

And sleep escapes us,

Hear,

In the morning,

The soft melodies we still hear,

Of the lullabies sung to us.

And so too, under the night’s blindness — where it cannot see —

From our mind’s tired eye,

Falls our thoughts’ tears:

Hot, aplenty, that brush our cheeks.

But yet, for the cherubs,

As their earth dances on its feet,

The other earth does not see,

Neither does the night feel,

Nor remember,

At cockcrow,

Their own voices they remember, or the fingers as dainty as theirs that brush their tears.

Ask the world that hears the rhythm of their earth it never longs, 

And it will tell you, 

It has heard the newlyweds coo as the pigeons cooed, even with no one there,

But it has never seen a love,

More pure,

Than when orphans become unto each other, all the parents they mourn together.

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