He is like the night thinking
Or the thinking night,
He often comes when the day is old
And every novel is closed,
Then, he adds his version which was untold,
Oh yes!
The untold is what he tells
The concealed he reveals
The unheard he speaks
And the unwritten he writes,
Last time when my story could no longer be told,
I lied, if that can help continue the prose
Then, he opened the door of my eyes
Stepping in with a new chapter of my life
As he fades out the old chapter,
In some cases I was the captured
And in other cases I was the warrior,
The rich man in a mansion of silver
And the sun that shines with the ray of gold
But as the sun rose from his sleep
He flew through the window
Leaving me lonely on wingless bed
To continue the next chapter on my own.