You were there
Among millions of sweaty bodice
returning from the festivities,

Shouldn't the sky seem particular
Of a colour of a romantic being
pushing poetry in the likes
Of citizens of the night

The Universe unbothered by who killed whom
Or the philosophy of life,
Errands running from the bishop town or the markets of dream

Rush hour of the busy life,
I ask the meaning of life,
The holy pages of what not the monks, the sky,
The ask of truth, the sands of time

From a distance, you went by
And weren't a vision from the ornamental fashion they sell

I saw you never,
And I am cited for hell,
But your eyes sold the the meaning of life,
And this foolish passerby, could tell.