I have put the Emerald Green to one side.
Submerged— within the lapping tide!—
Look now! Steadfast!—
Stronger than the Ark's iron mast—
Three angels approach above the water!
Transfixed, I set my gaze beyond the Light.
Shall we reside beyond that hallowed glow?

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.

From the basement we can hear the eternal choo-choo.

These sounds:
Slippy-pippy, slip-slop,
Sniffle-schnort, flap-amusement, choo-choo.

The eternal choo-choo;
Haha! We keep chugging along:

Choo-choo! Slip-slapple!
Turtle! Turtle!
Slippy-sloppy-ploppy!
Flop-clumping!
Choo-choo.

What we learnt from the Masks:
What we did with our freedom:
What we saw when we took up the pen.

Shall we learn what we had learnt once again?
I don't think I could stand another night
Locked inside the shadows of Earth-den.

Subsequently, the Masks coiled around us,
And we set down our penmanship in the shade.
They beckoned us to sing, once again.

The sky— filled with separate suns—
Became the name of God.
The ground— on trembling scales— unfolding—
Raised our arms unconsciously!

The evenings rang true at a time when we would engage in snooker or chess in the lounge, late into the night, waiting for daybreak to shine through.

On the weekends we would gather and watch the cricket begin: shirts versus skins on Emerald Green. Men versus women. The mens’ ******* seemed to ripple in the weekend air.

Mid-morning was reserved for artistic endeavours— honing our artistic sensibilities: a decidely symbolistic manner of preparition, in which we would prepare. We would recite lines and manifest Shakespeare there, at the cusp of Emerald Green.

A sporting life—
For the bloodsport—
We enjoyed sharpening our knives and loading our guns on the languid savannah plains.

For the thrill of the hunt—
The bloodsport—
Our sweat would drip onto the carcasses,
Mixing with the open veins.

We enjoyed the ****,
Displaying the beasts' heads as we covered ourselves in their blood,
Congregating for the love of the open veins.

******* preserved the bones,
And these hunts lived long in our memories as symbols of our glory;
Symbols of the beasts' pain.