On 'Season's A Dirge'- An Elegy

Now weary drought is unfolding with morn's very maturing warmth,
Where scorching sun's importing beams a glowing fire upon our hearth.
Nought,the chillness of rills,no more a flowering spot for musing Eyes,
summer's dirge is haunting still, we singing our notes in hapless ease.
Discouraging clime, no fullness ripe for lonely fatigued singing birds,
Nor a zephyr, nor cool, nor salve or soothe;to tender her earthwards;
See,earthly spirits dying soft; those survived once from coldest bleak,
While winter's had a shivering death,and pale as frost,its sicken break
If season's diseases be,consider human's too, his fate same its true--
Rudest time steels ,and murders through fever,pain,amid all in woe.
Swelling when cold,yet numb,in young and old,fearing wildest swell,
See it turns the sweetest singers throats,and morrow,a garland will--
From darkness growing grim,its specters arriving with deadly knells.
'Seen and unseen,my deary all ,one above knows Mystery is.

­ Nithin purple