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38 Remembering 4th June, 1989 Yes, I remember Marvell, Dryden, Yeats, men who had taken up the pen While others the sword To record the events of the sword That would have vanished Were it not for the words That shaped them and kept them. The shadows of June the fourth Are the shadows of a gesture, They say, but how shall you and I Name them, one by one? There were so many, Crushed, shot, taken, all overwhelmed, Cut down without a finished thought or cry. Presumably, that night, or was it dawn, The moon shone pure, As on the ground below Flowed the blood of men, women and children. The stunned world responded, and Pointing an accusing finger, felt cheated. But think, my friend, think: China never Promised a tea party, or cakes For the masses. It is we, Who, riding on the crest of a long hope, Became euphoric, and forgot The rock bottom of a totalitarian state. 39 Then, this compact commercial enclave, First time ever, rose up as one. Before we went our separate ways again, We thought as one, We spoke as one, We too have changed, if “not utterly” And something beautiful was born. As we near the end of an era We have at last Become ourselves. The catalyst Was our neighbour’s blood. Whoever would not For a carefree moment Rejoice at a return To the Motherland? But, rather pick ears of corn In a foreign field Than plough the home ground Under an oppressive yoke. Ours is a unique genius, Learning how to side-step all odds Or to survive them. We have lived By understanding Each in his own way The tautness of the rope Underfoot. ...

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