THE WAR drums are sounded. Men force their features into frightfulness and gnash their teeth; and before they rush out to gather raw human flesh for death's larder, they march to the temple of Buddha, the compassionate, to claim his blessings, while loud beats the drum rat-a-tat and earth trembles. They pray for success; for they must raise weeping and wailing in their wake, sever des of love, plant flags on the ashes of desolated homes, devastate the centres of culture and shrines of beauty, mark red with blood their trail across green meadows and populous markets, and so they march to the temple of Buddha, the compassionate, to claim his blessings, while loud beats the drum rat-a-tat and earth trembles. They will punctuate each thousand of the maimed and killed with the trumpeting of their triumph, arouse demon's mirth at the sight of the limbs torn bleeding from women and children; and they pray that they may befog minds with untruths and poison God's sweet air of breath, and therefore they march to the temple of Buddha, the compassionate, to claim his blessings, while loud beats the drum rat-a-tat and earth trembles.
THE DARKLY veiled June has come once again redolent of the rain-soaked earth; my heart that had grown weary and old answers to the call of the marching clouds, overcome with the sudden rush of life's turbulence. Shadows sweep over the young grass on the vast lonely meadows; and my blood surges up with the cry: It has come, has come to my eyes, to my breast, to my voice that sings in gladness.
