The lights, they play beautifully Upon the canvas of the horizon sinking wholly In the blend of twilight The city afar only seen as colourful dots Bleaching the eyes with lots And lots of colours that are still But moving in the artful manifestation of the waters
Everything that matters The heaven,the clouds, even the still lights Are conveyed to my sight And I as an alien figure judge their might For I can never be one of them
A poem on a extravagance of the foreign and the feeling of an outcast