Woe Is Me

A buried sin remembered on a gloomy night,

The grotesque tale beneath my graves,

Spur up like vampire’s undead bloody rage,

It awakens the swollen tears to fall down,

The tears moist my graves as the crime awakes,

The ray of shine wanes inside the dark well,

Salvation is what my undead body claims.

Bitter are those uncharitable thoughts,

Silence and scream both I feel at the same time,

The smell of decay, oh, the name of it cannot be named,

It lurks around like a monstrous creature,

And I lay here in vain.

My spirit is not at rest,

For I remember the alive was playing an instrument,

When I stopped the breathing heart,

I see the dead face looking at me,

The bereavement destroyed my sanity.

With woe the sin got buried in my graves,

The leaves fall, flowers wither over me,

The day comes and night sways,

Though the sin remains concealed,

My spirit misses the soft contentment.

This poetry is inspired by the great poetess Emily Bronte.