Down it goes the path, a faded attire does it own,
Lacking an ambience known, missing a specific tone.

Can it illuminate forever, but forever can it burn?
The initials are luminous all embellished, yet we see a sulking Saturn.

It’s a box of candies, each of whom might be as big as a bun,
The box reverberates distinctive symphonies, until in it, there are left none.

It’s not the little sea in the well, which announces its retour to meet its love, the circum-sky.
The one which rises up pushing the bricks, breaking the tie.

Mirage is momentous, pleasing but untrue,
Advancing towards life, we stumble upon a few.

Savant is no expert but he who can penetrate deception,
Which tons of you might justify as no bigger than a misconception?

Not being a savant is part of the training, where you flunk to succeed,
Life is your trainee with tons of obstacles and tons more it can breed.

Down he goes the path, a qualified savant was never he born,
As long as there’s a path leading him, the savant ain’t truly alone.