Dividend, Divisors and Remainders

What remains of an evening which comes but late at night?
What happens to a cloud-covered glorious star riddled sky?
Which tune does the cool breeze hum as silence settles on eyes?
Why does the Sun run faster here? What will remain of its light?

For those who are rich in their possession of time
Must know that time lies, like every other beautiful line
Like a poet who unabashedly demands a reader's loyalty
But refuses the same in return lest truth descends on eyes.

And what remains of the poet when the evening arrives for him
With a wind so chilling that he dare not stand by the window?
He leaves the world to itself, for to each world its own;
A fish struggles with the bait until it's the string or the neck.

SO WHAT REMAINS?