Up the steep steps
as you reach the age old fort,
you breathless behold
the green valley down below
and that magnificent mound of rock
by the name Robinson Hill.

In the sweet silence of birds' chirping,
the winds reek of rifles and gun smoke
and you hear not the rustling leaves
but bullets echoing all over the valley
one more down, another down
as they held the fort till fell breathless
passing into tombs and memorials
you read to pause for a breath
up above the green valley
where the grasses grew over the blood.

Don’t come to the cemetery at night Peter Xalxo would say
If you are so inclined make your visits in the day
For often in the evening when exam worries were gone
I would go to the cemetery and sit on some tombstone.

I think boy the ones from the other world make visits at nights
And they would not love to find living souls upon their sights
Why intrude their peaceful home and not leave them there alone
When the time after the sunset they think to exclusively own!

Having said this with a grave face he would lower his voice still low
While on nightly posts at the graves I’ve seen in the dark some glow
And at moonlit nights on duty’s round heard footsteps around me
I would advise boy not to step into at night at the cemetery.

He used to tell more such tales to instill in the boy some fear
But come the next evening and at the cemetery I would reappear
For I loved the moon bathed solitude the trees’ darkened shed
The tranquility of the place in quiet company of the dead!

All said I wouldn’t leave out in this account one truthful fact
Uncle Peter’s stories had some effect some impact
They colored my times at the cemetery spent at nights alone
I seemed to feel they were moving the graves’ marble stone.

Then one night as I was coming out around nine o’clock
To my horror found the gate closed with an iron lock
Bewildered I stood there knowing no other ways to go
When there appeared a shadow heard the voice of Peter Xalxo.

I told you boy not to loiter here not disturb their peace of night
This ground here the dead walks now though beyond your sight
Run home and never come back his voice in whisper talked
Some more words he mumbled before got the gate unlocked.

That night at the dinner table my father told mom this
He was such a good man and a great friend to miss
But God only decides in his garden which flower to pluck
Peter Xalxo died this evening suffered a heart attack.