Of roots, holding on with bitter taste, digging at the back, the sweaty fabric, the itchy pride, what to do, faith is peculiar and it has no bounds, faith is of stories that we tell, and heroes and villains have too much in common. Of roots, of where I came from, to I need to revisit on my brisk days of pleasant ride? while I'm breathing pure air, does the thought need to enter my head, what was? where will I be going? time, of roots, of long marathon, not sprint