The buoyancy of hands assure,
But the eyes are quite cynical.
Behind the flesh, before the soul
Somewhere vibrates the slate I know,
On which, some scars, they burn;
And some are perfectly masked.
Countless pairs of eyes do peep,
Only those deceived, they come near.
With some crumbling chalks they scribble;
And within a moment, they disappear,
The words, they blanch and fade away
In the blackness of that slate.
Some thunders within, swallow the words,
And a few gusts take them away.
The chalk, the slate; neither is mine
Yet some blessed words belong to me;
They survive like the graffiti,
Imprinted on the walls of heart!