When the darkness of the night draws the curtains of its blackness upon the mournful horizon,
and its spooky silence stirs into the apprehensive hearts whatever it could stir.
The spooky silence that enshrouds the ceremonial grief.
The ceremonial grief which is attended by the melancholy trees.
The melancholy trees which stand with their shadowy heads bowed in the gloom.
They stand in a somber grief over the tragic departure of the sun into the sea of blackness.
The sea of blackness that encircles the island of the horrific Tyrant of Sorrow,
when he emerges from his abyssal cave,
declaring the dominance of the kingdom of sadness over the vulnerable lonely hearts,
and ruthlessly enforce them to join his deeply cherished permanent folk song.
His eternal anthem which praises the excruciating suffering and the horrific pains.
The excruciating pains that spring from the deep wells of the lonely hearts.
The wells of the repressed pains that explode with sadness,
when the mighty sorrow hovers in the night sky,
calling out those lonely hearts from behind the curtains of his ancient darkness.
His ancient black clouds of belittling and humiliation.
The contemptuous black smoke that emerges from the disparaging eyes of this careless world.
The indifferent world who judged that the lonely hearts should suffer alone in its lifeless valley of neglect.
The lifeless wilderness of neglect which the world takes pride in owning the patent of its invention,
and achieving a glorious victory when its negligence crushes these vulnerable lonely hearts.