At This Hour

Tonight ends tonight for morrow comes morrow The gasping breath of gentle moon fades away It’s already three in the morning Still, I’m sitting, at the terrace where once again, I spy Silent thief tiptoed, leaving its mistiness on my face, as it tried to snatch the last blink of weary eyes, worn by yesterday’s gloomy looking fire-red sky And, this frequent creaking of a sagging rocking chair gives soul, the last hope that you’ll come ere, the great orb finally, wakes the sleeping prince