The lone poet walks Along that dusty avenue Lined with leafless trees And cold stones of a lonesome hue. Towards his deserted home He walks on and on On cold winter dusks- The hours of a weak dying sun. O' passers by! Stop And behold his lonesome gait, Maybe the lone remnants of His cruel raging fate. With the death of that weak Sun His lonesome day ends. Beneath those soils, warm, A peaceful night he spends. Nights pass o'er his grave A handful of solace they bring, Unkempt mementos; dark And lost remains of a shrewd spring...
Ganesh Prasad writes here