This gloomy night,
in white gown I'm dressed, standing near the French window
made up of rosewood.

Heaven's call is on hold.

Someone knocked the door really hard,
a familiar voice invited me tonight.
I had forgotten that today is hell's birthday.

Neither I want to go out nor talk.

I want to stay back at home in solitary,
enjoying every sip of port wine of pleasure and pain.
And flowing with silence, dancing with my shadow.

I would give up soon I know. Still I would.