Year After Year Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Going back home to the sad Indian adventures:
The conquered continents are all right here
In the same way we’ve been ready at believing- in the same
Clouds around the unreachable summits:
Trying out again,
Setting out their limbs up into the avenues that cannot
Be described,
Eventually to go back home again- to mothers in their beehives
Drinking steadily beside the strange ululations of their pools:
And it doesn’t seem to belong anymore,
The aborigines in the dismissed conundrums, nor any of it:
Not even the tadpole in its mud bath: how will it
Proceed from here,
And yet the traffic keeps busily at its stations,
As the ghosts haunt their very own castles year after year
After year.