Like the comet —far gone —
they return,
accompanied by wavelengths of torture
and secreted grief;
on their tired shoulders
weak and pale faces of drums, slung
with the sombreness of traded pride,
and, rested, their countenances dimly poor;
and also pale among them.
the fast-setting sun.

Drummers!
Did we not fare thee well enough at
Sunrise?
Now, do we see your faces blunder?
And your laboured breath —did it all
Struggle to clamber the pointed hills of
Transgressions?
Tell us, how did the engagement fare?
The setting sun does not lie.
Neither do her rays — never skinflints —
hide their glow under ceremonial bushelsꓽ
It has shone on you feebleness of unfulfilment . . . .

So says manꓽ
between the beginning and the end,
a margin —a fat, hanging thread
that stitches finely the torn, tattered hems of the
raffia raiment of chanting masquerades.