The last song at the fag end,
Pain of the dawn does blend;
The sad smile of the juvenile
In the afternoon dusk floats awhile;
The first flute of the first pain
Plays on the horizon for what gain –
In the last song there
What does it inquire!
The cloud’s myth at the end of the day
In its eyebrow does play;
The sportive message that passes
In its lightning flashes –
Talks of the dawn’s marvel
While to night’s myth it does travel.
Note: The Poet feels that when life’s concluding music plays up, it is not divorced from that of the prime of life. Rather, his conviction is, the primordial life makes its way unto death, though covertly, to re-appear with all its freshness.