Quiet, still, slow It becomes,
Nights when crawl stairs
Of my eyes.

In the absence of free breeze
Words through my pens,
Drops on paper as the spreading,
Fallen ink through my pair of seas,
So nigh.

That I can't bound it from flowing,
From wetting the skin bit by bit
With dripping time's droplet.

Your presence next to my past pages​,
makes me feel, how tattered I am?
How far that moon is from me?

Those stars that we planned to go,
How far they have become now?

Your tittering echoes, my ears.
Your face, so glowing, so compassionate
Carrying real glow of me in you,
Follows my sight.

Recalling, brushing and turning
And refreshing, the clock ticking becomes:
When flights of time, climb my sighs.

*-----*++++++++++++++++++++++*--------*

[This is how I am when I get alone,
This is how my words bathe me
Those lonely nights.

Mystery has nothing to do with it.
It's a clear image of the time when I am stranded in an unknown place.]