Look at 'em, blood from their eyne flows
A pale smile, like a coruscate, on their visage
Their throats swelled in dinges and songs
Their life, they despise-come, oh death!
Take 'em, free 'em from the prison of life
Take 'em, Oh dulcet dread!
What is hapiness? Why art they smiling?
Perhaps, their hearts are in ec'tacy!
What is sadness? Why art they sobbing?
Perhaps, their hearts are scythed a-twain!
What is this gush of emotions flowing;
Of joy and sorrow, of songs and dinges?
Perhaps, of clarions from the abyss of hate!
Why have the graves filled the gardens?
Perhaps, gardens depict the extinct joy;
and graves the prevailing malencholy!
Why art the children sobbing?
Perhaps, aware, their fathers art slayed!
Why doth lie, brides in corners?
Perhaps, their lover is never to come!
Why the oceans seem, a fathom higher?
Perhaps a fathom of vast oceans;
are from the eyne of 'em!
Why art the leaves rustling turbulently?
Perhaps they can, but rustle in pain!
Why is the pegion, not flying high?
Perhaps the dale is a big cage!-Behold!

Shabeeb H