Dying Day

by Bhupin Butaney

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From lands imbued with human lies 
to realms unknown to human eye,

where the sycamores lay as barren  
as a November day in gloom, 
where darkening skies birth  
quarter moons, kindling an eminent  

sense of doom as the crescent  
scythe looms with sovereign rule, 
a stoic man on a distant hill  
stands and only once attempts to move,

gazing up then back to still, 
as the only truth within this hidden space

unfolds under gradient stone.

 

Submit to the dying of the light, 
to Fate and the coldness of night, 
accept the dying of the light, 
and go gentle this cold night…