Treacherous! The concatenating hands of the dark mid hours,
Despairing the brave, even the man,
Let alone the child; grievance padded.
Wishes in mind to kill the dark.
Can’t bear, the eyes bedraggles the divan,
All for the dour.

Preposterous! Wonders are how the nights grip so,
But, a child is, the night, darkness it is.
Worry less child, the dark hours are nature, its truculence, however.
Sorrow of its maleficence stays if it tarries, I know.
Make best of it – it is for the rest
And say not wistfully ‘let the morning come so-so.’

Soporiferous! The early hours succeeding the dark hours when it comes.
Peace unleashes because light is almost due:
Swears to transgress anguish,
Nibbling through to dawn,
Plans to sway the day; to munch as gateau.
Gladly, it is morning, with joy it comes.