Ah! This morn which evokes the sweet past,
And makes me quietly lifted up,
As the soft clouds sail above,
Ah! This morn but golden.
When I walk on the ghost road,
Deserted and forlorn for the covid pandemic,
The fresh breeze thrushes me back,
To a windy day in May,thirty years before.
It was to a whirling time,
When bustling hopes were high,
And powerful Ambition was not yet realised,
When dear ones breathe on this green Earth,
Dear ones,who now rests in their silent graves.
Now the same,fresh breeze blows,
While we are fervently shadow-boxing,
Against the coronavirus ghost,
Whom we don't know where,
Hiding amongst us, petrified all.
Drink and eat and sleep,
The virus ghost shall,
By Divine Angels,
Be banished into the bottomless pit.
The fresh breeze chides:
We pledge that we shall,
Drive away the virus ghost,
Into their wild homes,
Though the safety of that day,
In May is nowhere.
