Populars are standing there still as death
And ghosts of dead men
Meet their ladies walking
Two by two beneath the shade
And standing on the marble steps
There is a sound of music echoing
Through the open door
And in the field there is
Another sound tinkling in the cotten:
Chains of bond men dragging on the ground.
The years go back with an iron clank
A hand is on the gate
A dry leaf trembles on the wall
Ghosts are walking.
They have broken roses down
And populars stand there still as death.
EKATA AYERE
