What tree, what lightning, what bloody ground,
all on board are dead.
What lament for the bloody crown,
for all on board are dead.
Fantasies may take wings and fly,
Wright brothers did not just dream,
Icarus was no Peter Pan,
Fate’s cards cannot be read.
Pine tree in Margalla’s ground,
you saw the bashful couple stroll
in shroud of white, then light, then shade
then fade… as all on board are dead.
An arm, a limb, torn from silken skin,
does it matter now what its colour was?
The hues of sunset mirror the loamy soil,
each tone a shade of red.
Grieve, the forlorn souls of yesterday,
tomorrow and then day after will come,
but never the smile, the pat, the hug,
now all on board are dead.