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.

Melody spun by threads of fate
Dirge brimming with tears flows
Melancholic harmony sung in a forlorn tune
Each bit of this song reverbates with him
Caged in the throat a scream of his name
Withering verses of her youth in his thirst
Lost in midst of cacophony of orthodox shrieks
Binded in chains of clamor of rank
A nighingale sings to the flute of his love
Blood in her veins dance to his symphony
Stolen by noise of deceit in tunes of destiny
Soul now sings hymns of love in heaven