In the shade of the crescent moon,
A silvery-silken veil wears a face,
Celestial spirits run from the crematories
And gathered in one place;
The spirits died of treason
Unrolled their boxes of grief,
And wail at the end of the season;
They have been sleeping for years
Surely more than a hibernating bear,
They do not sound friendly,
As revengeful and rageful they appear;
But the holy light of Indian basil
Keeps them apart,
And so I light a lamp every day
And from my gate, the spirits depart.