What beauty, a flower bequeaths,
That drapes every speck of misty dew;
That sheathes every measure of the glen;
Around the craggy mounds around.

What fragrance, a blooming bud,
That insipid chill among hills;
That perplexed heart to beauty;
Amidst the itinerant rivulets of life.

What petals on Yule day,
That zany elf, that petty doe;
That dwells the domicile;
Within that perpetual misty vale.

A small villa beyond a lofty bower,
Midst the mute witnesses of man’s story;
Lies a venerable bosom near the verge;
A land which ages have seen.

Of the West and the East,
Yon hills and vales it runs;
Where herds with milk, fields with bread;
Overflow beyond nature’s brimming bowl.

Awesome harmony amongst littered races,
From Nepal, Bihar and lands afar;
But their hue of lore ad culture;
Never did sully this superb synthesis.

Nepali or Adivasi, Muslim or Bengali,
Every Heart pounded for a good cause;
Nor considering the faith which differed;
As Hindu, Christian, Muslim or any.

The small hamlet woke anon,
To the cock’s crowing, a prelude to the dawn;
Hearkening the ear to a solemn stillness;
Of the busy morning hours.

Large troupe of tiny feathered ones,
Chirp with glee at nature’s splendour;
The mooing cattle graze the gardened landscape;
Made of men with paternal acres bound.

Little guys scurrying gaily off to school,
Following along a white dusty path;
But with determined ego in hearts;
To learn and to burn with zeal.

All actions to a unison “YES”,
Guided not by raw emotions or ego;
Led not by the evil hand;
But ever God’s will to behold.

Torn apart with tireless strife and misery,
Yet to every gloom, there glows brightly;
A sudden sparkle of joy and gaiety;
And stands still my beloved hamlet firm.

There it lay scorned and derided,
The wood where my saviour died,
The wood on which he hung disgraced,
There the sins of many forgiven.

There on the wood, a common criminal,
He breathed His last calling His own,
Pleading mercy for the poor sinner,
That elevated Him on that wooden cross.

There on the wood as he lay dying,
Bestowed He a gift oh so precious,
A mother pierced, to call our own,
There from the cross where he bled.

There at the foot of the wooden cross,
Pharisee and Jew, they mock His fate,
One robber damned whilst another reborn,
There on the cross was mystery unfolded.

There on Calvary did the blind see,
The earth shook and with fear trembled,
The temple’s curtain was torn asunder,
As His side gushed out blood and water.

There it stood empty and forlorn,
Where once our Lord agonisingly hung,
But as the Easter morn draws near,
There the barren cross shone victorious.