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.
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