Feasts Come And Feasts Go

Feasts come and feasts go And In the turn of years The number of feasts becomes A number of years to Centuries: Such as the feast that in our street With every calendar year new Brings celebrations that come and Brings celebrations that go. But ah! memories In the Sub-Conscious stand Withstanding the onslaught Of years and centuries As an infection sweet the Sub-Conscious Goes And then from brain to brain will pass In speech: As the mothers who their sons tell The contents of the Sub-Conscious And thus these further to their children Unfold And thus the train of tradition move To the train of the Sub-Conscious parallel. Infectious sweet and yet passing as in A Relay of Time from one to other. So My mother what you told me Remember I And Treasure I And you told what they told You even when small on your mother’s Lap you stood and all attentive Heard. Thus Too of your remembrances multifarious The Feast that once each year be Celebrated Brings in due sadness such sweet memories And Memory becomes the glue The chain That in the Relay of Time joins First to next. And on and on continues further in Life. Now the Feast is come and come In to these days of drear Where Hope loiters alone Single tree green of broken-hearted solitude Amidst the drooping fading tree by tree Of fading drear. Memories on each other Flow. The Feast will come and Go. Yet the old wounds will become As new wounds. So sang of Heaven the sweet Violins. So flowed the memories with Every striking of the bands With every pace the procession-voyage Of the Saint-Statue, with every Peal and toll of the church-bells, With every act, albeit tiny-small, With every act I say and I assert There will be old wounds that New wounds again with Bleeding blood anew Will drain. So sang of Heaven the sweet Violins. So sang of Heaven the sweet Violins.