Reciprocated heavens gazed at
untouched lips of dawn.
The only question that I hold
Is how to climb the stairs
That lead to heights of godly fruits.
Why can we only share this land with birds
When they are pulled to earth?

Wearing my face to see the delicacy of native streets,
How much this soil has absorbed of our emotional dust
That glimmers with ethereal beauty.
Sometimes I realize our mothers carried us, untethered, from the realm of energy
Into the solidity of the world of matter.
And the reason for this pull through this vortex was an act of love.
And these streets are the final point
From which we are now brave.

Does light find its shelter when it’s turned off?

Nothing inspires the stranger anymore;
his eyes in full, active vagrancy,

searching for any brisk encounter with virtuous hope,

but they only land on a ray of sunshine,
highlighting the path, pointing west.

To the west, he finds dry land, 
mischievous land, hungry for arms of kindness.

Impalpable, catatonic mirage, reflected by the sounds of shivering dead grass,

blown by the November morning wind.

And hollow, doorless churches to the west, at this hour, meet drafts

that carry the force to blow out all the praised and chanted candles—
for the loved and lost,
for the warmth of the body,

for frostbitten souls.

It’s in that darkness the stranger realises himself:

standing on his knees,

patting and crying over this land,

asking for ease, begging for bliss.

And it's the pain he feels,
that kills him harder than the death itself.