AN Elegy For My Loss From The Origin Root

ON SUDDEN DEMISE OF GRANDMOTHER ON THE YEAR OF 2013

For the day, a cold and swoony theme,
It owns the remember'd wreaths sadly way,
As if in rolling tears they passing them.
O' rest in, the void and empty’s languid may.
You being's so closer god, an echo yet sad,
For mortal world or into my wretch soul
Favor's in deepest pain, the mourning bird;
Of doom's and ceased ways of illness hurl,
Reach her night's airy height, a village, its truth lost.       1

Where the shadow of the scene, in last eyes
While grey the clouds wept for sullen all white
You are in dew, the sharp, when crystal loss,
Melt the name in rapid fire, while are wilt.
Came and perish, life to death in its trot,
Kind of precious pearly halo it works taint.
Roll to my sorrow, you enatic root,
The unseen fly that flies in radar height;
To meet her in pillowy roost is now dream that waste.      2

Once the queen of winning moments; you live
As a bright bird who sung that solemn song,
Of mirth and beloved with natured love,
For those with the imbued souls they pang,
Now morn and night to seek their dearest love,
And lov'd you oft when they need richly most;
With your devoted face that pure and active.
From now glory might commute but that Kist
Which time that self-made with sadness flow the tear sea   3

No delight fair; since which eludes abroad,
As even through a secret form it fled away,
With painful descent, and inevitable dread,
Creeping among us to mourn for the betray,
That death made to ensure its darkling deed,
By which your fate has veiled its curtains
When eye of your day once closed, you part’d
Whilst away like our lost rapture, even burns.
But stains the world your kindred love, sure never die . . .   4

Cold for night, cold her mind, a stone in ages,
Where palest moon stillness gloom in life's wades,
This the newest alarm kindl'd eager ears,
Ah! Death has slumbered from the mortal vales!
That beast, made your passage for illness, tell—
Nor awful death vouchsafe age's sincere falls?
Tell life—the direst breath of rustic spell
Crept with lone the night has ringed the awful bell.
When her dear soul is fled, o' grieves—my hearten will!      5


  EPITAPH

“love had ten thousand flowers Bloomed on those cheeks, like an angel you came as haste to earth and Opened the joys breast until the sun’s has faded, fatigued with self-heat of burden Left the world to keep the loads to the enchanting night.



Nithin Purple