In a half-moon night,
a noiseless, chilling wind horribly tuned: the hymn of Nyx.
The tiny, little, bright spheres, some static and
some were floating in the air; hyped and
played hide and seek with the roaming clouds,
the view was in the lap of mystery,
causing lot of misery; so,
sleepless, I lay on my couch and
was counting the tickling sounds of the silent hours.
And like a disillusioned romantic, tried to seek-a loved one-
in my conceits, to share my loneliness and growing boredom.
but, the pending horrors (of night) hail
my fears, and cease my pen to paint my dreams
upon the twinkling sky;
and dimly i heard a voice, saying:
‘you’r strong but wrong,
Don’t revere your stinky thoughts, worthless they as old wives tale.
behold! those clouds that may not shower any rain, but (at least)
will color your sunset sky, so,
sing your dreams, you are not done yet.