The giant-like universe of ours is a colossal thing,
The abode of numerous galaxies,
The bastard black holes are there,
So are the meteors like the prostitutes, roaming.
The tiny particles merrily swim,
As if the naughty children,
Passing spare time concertedly,
Giving priority to their individual whim.
Like the lost Robinson Crusoe, the sun feels lonely,
With no moon by its side,
Feels a bit content and gratifying though,
For the clouds’ company.
The conceited moon comes into sight,
With the colossal procession,
Of the idle yet stunning stars,
The priceless ornaments of the night.
At times, a child looks as far as he can see,
Finds these all worthless,
The universe is a basket and inside we all are,
Trying to fly away like birds, trying to be free!