The waning sun’s now dipping low.
Tree top crescents are red aglow.
Returning ravens in distance dive.
Laden carts where habitual strive.
A puffing chimney in shades below.
O gleefully romping waning day.
You whisper byes to kids at play.
What you gave, what the pains.
Chills thrills, aches and gains.
Crumbs and scraps along the way.
On the rutted path another mile,
Below dripping wax moments file.
Ocher disc that’s loosing glow;
O’er dreads and deeds of men below,
None can stop like the flowing Nile.
To a day of toil you give the lie.
Where forever beast and men ply,
Best of men and the worst of them,
Sound their prayer, bile or phlegm.
In mosque or church or soulless dry!
You go and promise another morn.
It’s soft in promise or dread scorn?
But rolled scrolls of fates decree,
Or fortune’s quiver none shall see.
Would it! that I was yet to be born.