The Aging Night

Slowly my night was aging, I found no dry path to stride along Under the grey moon, All those mortal moments, that I passed by, Were not encouraging to me, I desperately looked for a forgiving mind In that poorly-lit night for my redemption. I have an inchoate sense, it tells me—‘there is Debris of hopes strewn out there somewhere.’ I found one, and picked up to illuminate the Labyrinth of my erroneous life.