He wrote a weeping song one night;
He wept and wrote a song.
And weeping, while he sang the song,
The night wind sang along.
He sang all night with intense pain;
He wept and sang all night.
And while he sang, the wind of night
Sang ‘neath the pale moon light.
Then the night said, “I’ll go.”
“I’ve got to go,” she said.
“For night is almost spent,” she said,
And saying thus, she fled.
All day he spent waiting for night;
He wept and longed for night.
And when at last did come the night,
He saw the night wind’s flight.
She flew through clouds, and straight to him;
A-straight to him she flew.
And as with beauteous wings she flew,
A breeze on him she blew.
And once again they wept and sang;
The sang the weeping song.
But this night as they sang the song,
His tune was somewhat wrong.
She said to him, “You look so ill.”
“You look so ill,” she said.
He heaved a heavy sigh and said,
“Soon, I shall be dead.”
And saying thus, he closed his eyes;
He closed his eyes that night.
She wept beside him through the night
And fled again at light.
And since that night her lover died;
Since he died unknown –
Every night, alone, unknown,
The night wind sings alone.
She sings the weeping song tonight;
She weeps and sings the song.
But weeping as she sings the song,
There’s none to sing along.
Jeyapaul Caleb is a College enrolled student of Journalism, English Literature, and Psychology. And an unofficial, casual student of all forms of art and social behaviour.