The old man looking out from the unclad window of his tiny hut,
He grinned his teeth and smile as the night greets his wrinkled face with it's crimson tide of a beautiful grim from a maiden moonlight.

To him; Oh! Age how often you come,
Passing on folklores to him that have heard to tell.
Now is mine, a day will be here when you shall hold this stick of mine in possession.

The crickets screeches as the moon approaches to stay,
It's continuous screeching; a melodious dirge on a dying day,
The toads jumping tro and fro the road in chorusing song
To add to the heraldry of it's companions,
The birds flapping their wings in haste to rest in their coveted nest as the night pitches it's tent on the doorway of a shallow evening.

A little Conquetoon dashing out from a nearby farmland half harvested looking hazed,
Unto the bush he bleats and scampered away from dangers the night harbours.

Happy are we; so little in age to sing and dance under this beloved heavenly lamp.
Now the folklore has come to it's end,
Let's sleep beside our father's bed of straw and dream with a honey mind,
May tomorrow's moonlight be more friendly than these!