When The Day Is Done Poem by Mohabeer Beeharry

When the day is done
And my herd of goats and sheep are in their folds,
When the storm has come
And the storm has passed,

I shall sit quietly by the fire
And ruminate on the days gone by.
Like everything, time came
And time went.

I have nothing to rue about,
I love the village that gave me birth
And the communal well.

I love the flowers, always in bloom
The hills and the mountains that never ask for anything
For the infinite pleasures they gives me.

I love the sea that lulls me to sleep
And the strident screeches of the gulls that wake me up
And the ceaseless whistling of the breeze in the weather-abused casuarinas.

I love the little children
I greet on the way to the hills
And the wildness of the hibiscus
Sweeping down the slopes in thoserare ecstasies of purple blooms.

That little cremation cemetery
Berthed raggedly in a spindly eucalyptus belt,
It always reminds me that there is an end to everything.

That the tragedy is not in ending there
For this is inevitably the fate of all things:
The soul needs to renew itself.
The pain is in setting roots to a place
That was never and will never be ours.