The lallangs leer at the breed of mosquitoes,
The parangs rust in their sheaths.
There the wood-smoke has turned to dust,
There the children make their wreaths.
Seek a solid beginning;
The past scares only the meek.
Squint at the seeming sane,
The world has a rugged tint.
Pretty rants and resolutions are the coward’s bane.
Don’t you see?
The rainbow brings the sun.
The lane-trees are green and the jungles don’t carry a gun.
There music slows the flying birds;
There the Hajis sermon their herds.