Poets and writers strife to be the best,
By offering the magic of words down,
While still narrating what's within their chest,
Trying to conquer Fame's and Glamour's crown.
But the verses and pearls who I do write,
Are neither for fame, neither for a name,
Only for preserving the lovely sight,
That's sometimes mundane or adorned with fame.
Because, how else could I preserve these things
That range from sorrow, from love to nature,
Other than placing them in my writings,
While feeling also a harmless pleasure?
  Let seekers dive in the rivers of ranks,
  And me enjoy along the riverbanks.