Paragmasteh

The evensong of birds,
Ushers in the night.
The end of the fretful, wakeful day
With mournful words.

The same day,
Which with morn did so bravely bloom
Is now ending with doleful gloom.

Gone is the glare and blare-
In their place, a sable silence
In which thoughts can be heard.

With the flight
Of lifegiving light,
Life itself has become light,
Shorn of the burden of strife.

Yet, the birth of the night
Is anything but delight.
Is it because the end of light
Hints the end of life itself ?