Bhawini talks of nature and the ebb of life in this poignant sad poem.
This ebbing day,
Tints suture on every cloud.
In this misty flirty darkness,
I can see my very own shroud.
Puffing its weeds, night blows out lamps of the day.
Decked I am with trophies and garlands of defeat.
Who once were friends eventually said nay,
Pain it does, not having a haven to retreat.
Fires and shadows mingle silently,
With the gloom of dust,
The quest seems dying now persistently,
Life slips out of grasp, my blood seems to rust.
Pic from Net.