Those who have gone and those on periphery
Or in contemplation of hibernation for splendid disappotments,
Although are different sorts from spirited living
Irrespective for causes weak or strong,
Altogether forming ever constellation of prisms
In the remote corner of cloudy skye limits
Of feeble memories that saw them living late.
Early bathing in the river of mourning with rising Sun
Leaves nothing for ablution of mourners in evening,
Lousy sleep drags easy after the glimpse of stars.