The mountains will lament
The hills will be in sorrow
Beneath the poetry of dirge
Moon will silently mourns
Stars will be under coronach
Sun will radiates noon pain
Pasture will gone whithered
His immortal ghost will lives
And keeps roaming about the street
The pages will be painted threnody
By the living poets; condolence
Bird will croons elegy and dirge
His lines will keeps breathing
His verses will keeps living
His tanzas will stays alive.
When a poet die
He would be buried at tomb
Of a white pages, with his ages
When a poet die
He would reincarnate
And settle down in a bottle
Where he will remains source of joy
To all drinkers of poetic wine.
Lawless