To lie with Ganges soil: some tombs were temples,

Some were cenotaphs; and one, a tiny Taj.

Here lay sundry relatives, including Uncle Henry,

Who'd been for many years a missionary.

'Sacred to the Memory

Of Henry C. Wagstaff,

Who translated the Gospels into Pashtu,

And was murdered by his own Chowkidar.

'Well done, thou good and faithful servant'-

So ran his epitaph.

The gardener, who looked after the trees,

Also dug graves. One day

I found him working at the bottom of a new cavity,

'They never let me know in time,' he grumbled.

'Last week I dug two graves, and now, without warning,

Here's another. It isn't even the season for dying.

There's enough work all summer, when cholera's about-

Why can't they keep alive through the winter?'

Near the railway-lines, watching the trains

(There were six every day, coming or going),

And across the line, the leper colony . . .

I did not know they were lepers till later

But I knew they were different: some

Were without fingers or toes

And one had no nose

And a few had holes in their faces

And yet some were beautiful

They had their children with them

And the children were no different

From other children.

I made friends with some

And won most of their marbles

And carried them home in my pockets.