It’s on my face; it’s running on my bed,
It’s not water; No! It’s not a sweat,
My pant is dry; my neck is very wet,
It tastes salty; Oh! It’s a tear.
In panic and cold, I stood and wander,
I sat once again, only to shiver,
Hands in my groin, I began to quiver,
Where is my memory, I’m not a sleepwalker.
I got the answer when I opened up to yelp,
I went to bed listening and singing a dirge,
To who was I lamenting for, my kinsmen are still there,
It was for him, the one whose voice I always heard.
The voice was strong, deep, and captivating,
It grew weak, shallow, and ailing,
Today, it’s extinct, making the night frightening,
Silence is all I hear, though the birds are singing.