When poets thought I was dead
When my ashes were  scattered
When I was  running
and my heart was stuck on a barbed wire


When I am  too old to create rhymes
couldn't pull heartstrings with my ink
or color a beautiful city with crayons

When my words were plagiarized
and I fell victim to the inevitable  

When the tsunami tides were approaching
and you sent me a rhythmic piece
to keep me company

When I could barely form words,
that would impress my shadow
When you lighten up my bolt
by commenting a sacred criticism and love for my pieces