It waves hard, like
  An ordeal of times
       past;
Irresistible, it wears
      down
 Wilfully mortal
    endurance;
It worries, like
     summer sky,
  Setting the soul
      breathless;
In woeful tone the
     moth
  Haplessly weeps to
       stars;
Longing, infinite and
       vain,
   Furnishes the mood
       inside;
Outside, nighingale
       still
  Sings through
     the vacant autumn
          sky.
                       -by
             Hakim Kassim.