A thousand thoughts;
Not a single grounded.
A hundred dreams;
Not one anchored.
Floating like a feather yet
heavy as the anvil,
He stops to turn; to turn, to watch those lonely footprints
in grains of memories wash away, with every gulping wave by the sea.
Amidst the restless waters and washed away traces,
images still in absolute resolute remains.
Passion vibrant and only known to he who sees,
though silent, still calm, triumphant over ruthless waves, slaveless it frees...