When all the reasons of glee,
Had trailed far, ahead of the time,
And gave me no trust of their revisits,
I saw myself unifying the moments,
Which my dreams had been lynching
For so long, in a naïve passion
And expectations from the coming spell
I found you then,
Who gave me a hand and pushed me upward,
With the other arm, round my reluctant days,
Which cried again to be lived and loved.
Yet I’m still a weaver, darning his days,
With an innate restlessness for the conclusions,
And maybe, I fritter away all your efforts.