Life is a day, a page;   
Every morrow, an unwritten page;   
I turn a page a day of my life,   
Only to see hopes striving for life.   
Like the leaves of a tree,   
Pages drop afloor my mind,   
And decay, and on the rot,   
Fall fresh ones, with dead hope.   
The next page of my life,   
I'm unable to leaf through,   
For it hides behind   
A camouflage of new hopes.   
I browsed through the rotten pages,   
And nothing could I see,   
Except remains of dead hopes,   
Immoral children of unending desires!   
Yet in the wilderness of solitude,   
I see a flicker of light,   
At the fag end of everyday,   
Of a living hope of tomorrow.   
Eager to turn the next leaf of morrow -   
Morrow, the harbinger of hopes,   
I wish myself sweet dreams,   
Every night ere I go to sleep.