On that night of gloom;
When the evening seemed awful;
The moon coming out as if it portends doom;
The stronghold shaking in scansion.
The spirit is far-fetched;
Its nature is not stretched.
The past came calling;
The wergild must be paid;
The prodigal son is not yet repentant.
When the day of reckoning appears
All will be in mourning and tears
Sorrow clings to him
The pedantic tunes of the monotonous hymns
Splufic the sorrow seems.
Weak and abandoned he felt
Resting on the shoulders of hope.
He clung to the wheel of faith
Believing the word that stretches like rope
Looking up lightens the weight.
Life is truly a game,
If you take the wrong steps
Your life turns nothing but a maim
But the right deeds, joys leapt.
©Benedict Niums, 2015
Welcome o the month of March.