Oh! the pride of my destitution;
With folded hands I implore,
the dead mercy in thee;
Stay a bit longer, don't go.

Don't go before my impudence
Narrates you the torture,
Your devotee has suffered
In absence of thy compassion.

The nostalgic reverberations
Painted the silhouette of
My empty silent nights,
With the brushes of insomnia.

The growling of first breeze
With the breaking of dawn,
Reminded me of those looks
The tantalising world was about to hurl.

Will you silently survive,
The excruciation of my day?
Maybe you're too anxious
But my vocals are tired.

© Badee Uz Zaman