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The old man from Ceylon I met an old man in the market square yesterday, He greeted me in a very uplifting way.

Reclining his weary bones on a wooden chair, His life so rich and diverse he was willing to share. Born in Ceylon later renamed Sri Lanka, For his homeland I think his heart did hanker.

His face etched deep with years of youthful fun, Running barefoot in the country of tea and sun. I wondered had his ancestors pick tea all day, To keep their family hunger pangs at bay? He recited interesting tales of how it used to be, Travelling on the only bus for hours to visit family for tea.

They would always be in, he said with a stained smile, We were grateful after a dusty journey of 200 mile. His life now so different he visits by plane each year, Phoning first to make sure his relatives are there. He retrieved a phone hung around his neck to verify, Then smiling he shook his head and looked up at the sky.

Who would have thought? He said with a resigned face, I would leave the Indian Ocean to sit in this far-off place.

I left him sitting dreaming of a young boy having fun, Distant memories of Ceylon, him playing in the midday sun.

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Title Annotation:Letters
Publication:Evening Chronicle (Newcastle, England)
Geographic Code:9SRIL
Date:May 9, 2013
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