Life is pretty short.

It is a crime to solve this amorphous riddle.

The dear, dear sun-
moves like an aged old ghost,
jovially, with histories and stories on its hunchback.

Feeble teeny lights of flying dreams,
drift over the cities of civilization of roots and roses,
like a thick sloppy smoke.

Life is pretty short,

intricately designed to wipe out-
all the songs of sparrows and nightingales,
and nothing else can be exciting after death.

Or is it the saliva of some slimy poison-
which inducts the motif of grief,
feeling,
and a body without a mind,
or a hope beyond a trace?

You see,
it is just about a day or a night,
the dawn or the dusk,
a winter or a spring.

And somehow,
In this grand play of time,
Life is what ebbs away,
Only desires and a fountain of a foundation...
remains.

And I therefore, may ask-
O Me? O Life-
what Good amid these?

Since you see,
These walls were unusually dry,
They slept like milk, on Saturdays.

And, life is pretty short,
It is an industry of cowards,
manufacturing vision.