They say, all's written in the stars,
That your travails are part of His great design.

Then, why o why, Listener supreme,
Do you tempt with mortal treasures,
For us to reach out, reading your signs?
Only to draw away the light,
On reaching the shore.
Bestowing the blackest of nights.

The myopic soul gropes frantically now, to find the way back home,
Won't you reveal your moonlight?

- bankachaand