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In the cold night, even flowers were frost,
People sleeping over , what they have lost,
Ditched by others, in the chilling weather,
Drenched with tears , their broken feathers!
The fire to fly in them has fade,
The heart they had , is almost dead,
Once eyes that soar, and touched the sky,
Today behind the facade of tears they lie,
Are sheding the blood and gleam they had,
And are loosing the stars , the sky possessed!
They had dreamt of heaven, and forgotten the land,
And as all arrogant , are deposited in the sand !
Now they're mourning over fate , crying over it,
They're people of mind , they're people of wit !

In the same night , under the same moon,
Sits a tipsy labour, working from the noon,
He has felt the wrath , of the sunny day sky,
But is sipping from goblet, some instants of joy,
With a earthen pot, he has won over himself,
He needs no power , he needs no pelf!
Why to live in reality , when he can,
Imagine winter as summer and summer as rain!
He hold the moonlight ,with his both hands,
But his legs never staggering from the land!
He never think of what others say to him,
He is busy in imagining , he is busy in whim,
What is sorrow to him ? He has never felt,
He is the his joy , with just a goblet !
To his soul now , heaven is just a dirt ,
He is a drunken man , he is a man of his heart!

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