Lousy, the life has become
or by me it is made wearisome.
Wanton was it, but once
had lots of fun.

Nights seems to be longer,
I in solitude amidst murky.
Count the passing stars,
heart beats to keep its the only key.

Even on the dark curtain of sky,
cotton clusters floating gather up.
Shining stars hide they, from my sight,
ever hope, in vain to see the ‘Father up.

In loneliness of night,
not a passer-by, to accost.
Nor stars in store to count,
this malign of nature, my life, it will cost.

On the bed I keep turning,
praying for an early dawn.
Eyes opened wide for the golden beam,
with unrest soul like on bed of thorn.

In silence, of the dreadful night, could hear only,
the cop on his round.
Clock, keep the rhyme of my pumping heart,
the moon, seldom when unveiled, as a mound.