Pitch dark is the spectrum of night,

                  In the lawn, at the door,

                  And on the boundary wall

                  Tyranny is a sentinel.

                  When the winds blow swishing,

                  Worn out windows

                  Begin to weep and wail and at moment

                  When a tiny glow-worm begins to glow,

                  Since years door-clung sighing mother,

                  Recalls the memories of her son,

                  Years ago went on to combat for the king

                  In search of ephemeral victory,

                  Whose taste vanishes before it is cherished.

                  Her rosy-red perturbed eyes,

                  Incarnate the scattered agony,

                  She mutters,

                  Ambiguous words with the withering lips;

                  The story of defeat and exodus is inscribed

                  On the lines of her cold-stunned hands,

                  She looks engrossed into the vacancy

                  And becomes attentive

                  On each rustle of the wind.