maybe, a few branches were let off the trunk,
nevertheless, it was meant to be burned,

each day someone would die,
but the dying puppets on stage
must let the ink dry,

weave words, scribble stories,
times are tough, sweet and deep,

but I promise you,
there lies hope in between imageries,
there lies strength in between metaphors,

after millions of crumpled dreams,
trust the paper one more time,

let the ink dry.