O’! standing I’m on the verges
foliage collapses with the howling gale.
The past (sun) withering, to the skies urges
uncompromising the persisting (night) sail.
The clouds too moan and the rains weep,
the lightening flashes on the inward sight
once beatitude of the soul deep,
woe is me, now the woebegone night.
The rivulet teems thru’ the lowland
the birds cry a dismal song
tears hope a consoling hand.
No one I see till furlong
and from the edge when I fall,
I never come back even if you call.