Sitting on the rooftop
He looks at the empty inkpot with tipsy eyes.
In the moonlit solitude,
Intoxicated with a glass of bleak thoughts, he breaths air of nostalgia.
Serene Night gathers the silence of his struggles,
feeds him ingenuity
garnished with sparkling words.
He fills his quill with red drops of
inking immortal tales,
weaving parallel world in space-time.
And also inscribes real stories around the
dreams and visions beyond,
With his pallet of parched colors of all the empty emotions
He paints the dark night.
Constructing lessons while walking on harsh roads of guilt,
the dark seems to him
wilder than the day.
It 's his only soulmate that lend ears
to him out of voids,
also tunes songs of inharmonious life.
It searches for lost identity in the teeming streets of cold hearts.
Eyes that hide infinite torment
Nightfall reads them without biassed signal.
Enwreathing him in friendly arms
cuddling in a blanket of darkness
midnight sings a melodious, optimistic lullaby,
charging his bone-weary soul for
an affable voyage..
On a soft feathery cotton ball,
he falls asleep among the stars.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem