Innumerable days have passed since his rays
Had last met a earth in glory and bloom…
He still awakens from his slumber every morn,
And rises beyond the hills,
The fiery ball of orange,
Spreads his warmth all over the place…
But alas!
The warmth is not returned to him,
Even in it's tiniest fraction…
He touches and warms every inch of earth he finds,
But his concern is in vain,
Though he visits the smallest of the small corners,
He doesn't find a single soul who awaits him with eager eyes…
For the world is full of busy men…
The mighty sky too,
Sways and swings with all his grace,
Form one end he stretches to the other,
With so much grandeur and magnificence…
But the world is full of busy men,
Who don't notice,
Even when the sky is dressed in it's best set of clouds…
Right over their own heads…
Neither the moonlight that penetrates the dark of the night,
Nor the soil o'er which the mist hangs enchantingly,
Nor the grass that has called the dew upon it,
Is enough to please our busy men…
Indeed men are busy,
For they are all preparing for the war,
Sometimes they want to kill indiscriminately,
Sometimes they want to suppress voices within,
But each wages his war,
And ne'er did it occur to them,
To seek refuge in the happiness of the mist, the dawn, the starry skies…
How time must pity the busy men,
Who were too busy to even steal bits of happiness,
That spread before them, even for them…
It was on one fine day that
The world of busy men met its end
The air had stood so still and silent,
The silence beating its breasts,
To announce war has begun…
And it was not long before it said that the war was over, too…
And all the busy men had been done away with…
The fiery ball retired early,
Into a sleep of eternity,
The moon hid within the folds of the clouds,
Who had cried their hearts out,
The tears only washed off the blood,
And the dark reigned forever.
