I have been walking alone,
Through sea-shores, and on caverns,
I have been carving stones,
Designing arches in unknown chapels.
There have been times when, wandering and going astray,
I, decaying, often lamenting, had envisioned a woman in May.
When I meet her, through the monotony, above the cacophony, her voice rings,
Her hair flies, tender eyes, sweet disguise,
My mind clings
To every bit of music, every memory, every tavern, and their wine glasses,
Camera reels, begging children, their stories, dead carcasses,
Which we saw, walking together, miles afar, in same cauldron,
Being boiled, in clothes soiled, flesh spoiled --- Never to be known
To the other, Miles afar, never to decipher, the eternal purpose,
To juxtapose on my mission, The woman who came so much close
To the definition of that lady, that my young heart drew,
A white paper, lines darker, shades and light, without a clue.

What does this mind possesses that it keeps on drawing and redrawing?
Never to stop or admire, the offerings of this February morning------