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 far above;
Longing, infinite and vain,
   Furnishes the mood inside;
Outside, nighingale still
  Sings through the vacant autumn  sky.
                      
                                       -b­y
                             Hakim H. Kassim.