How do we call these days of sorrow, The days of strange untold distress? When nothing crying hearts could borrow From merciless hands of loneliness. While tears flow through the fingers And unto someone’s faded dream, That feeling in the depth of soul lingers Under refuge of the shadows, grim. What are these days of rage, confusion, The days when hatred fills the veins? And reveries are but illusion, Woven from the silver threads of pain. Pale moon sheds light on a broken mirror, From the placid evening skies; The night’s repose is drawing nearer, And wrath inside thee dies. And then joy comes; and thumping madly The heart rejoices in the breast, Young spirit spreads its wings and gladly Awakes fresh love, by angels blessed. With charming smiles and shy confessions, Gushed from a tender timid heart, This ardent love, adorned with passions, Is cherished in the songs of bard. How do we call it? Days of anguish, Of lovely pleasure and o’ feelings’ strife. Now soul’s content and then will languish; It’s unpredictable… We call it Life. 24 January 2006