Morn
Stars tired have at last
Crossed the border;
And Morn
Has not yet shown the luminous flag!
It is late; it is late!
The heads of hills are anxious-dumb;
Impatient lies the icy air;
Quiet are houses stunned everywhere,
And deserted look these streets, those tracks!
Undecided in mood,
I lie in my bed;
Unwilling to cast, aside my warm blanket,
But eyes: uneasy, sleepless!
Oh, this span of some hours;
May be, of time more!
I cling some misty hope;
But find:
Unbearble these times of ours!
–HASIT BUCH