Time is hurrying near

I don't know who am I? What is my existence? 

When the roses are staid and sluggish, and there is no stirring in fetid and muffled roots. 

Last year spring arrived very late in my uninhibited garden 

But I ruminate that time is hurrying near----morose, miffed and unmalleable,

Intractable, lonesome and dour to some tenebrific point, mixed and unmixed;

Darkling, dusky and gloomy like the sullen flowers of winter season,

I don't comprehend time now; but I ponder that time is rolling down side by side like a river, inconstrained and unbending,

But last time there were some white roses on my delirious and damp windows, but now they are dishevelled and devoid of placid moon,

Never-ending seas and foamy waves 

The time is swerved on the saline flowers

The ocean overflows within me, the life corrodes inside me;

The death is at hand, implacable and labyrinthine alleys 

And the agonizing torpors, and the ocean that flows is now trickling through the blue-bright eyes,

Overflowing time rolled into the skin of still night 

The love ends...

And time stings like the venomous rapier, slashing the thick and shadowy trees,

Shrieking of crickets on the bare banks of barren rivers 

The distant mountains and the farthest sky 

And the unheard voices in the shrunken woods 

After and before 

Rounded time and the burning lamps in the white hills 

And the breaking waves upon the pathless shore 

And the songs of cuckoo at the next door ...