With its tarnished jambe-painted with hue;
Along with the shadow that dwindled as it rested.
The souvenir of her son had made her,
Pale and dilapidated.
No more those sounds of Ardor and laughter,
That use to arch with the plethora of rib-tickler.
Through the notches, it had seen so far-
But like a broken bolt, dropped with a buckling cold!
Even the branches cry with
Falling feuilles-one by one, but
Like a lonely wooden stand, she looked towards
the lamp light-far away from her,
Waiting for her son to appear.
The frost had settled on the greeny petal,
Shivering and mourning in distress.
But it laid still, with a smile and emptiness
With the hope of filling up space.
The night was her best friend and
The day was her enemy and,
Like a beldam, it stood long.
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