There was always a thought I was harboring, 

waiting for the right moon's crescent above us, 

waiting for the right soil, fertile and strong.

I've crossed the cold oceans—holding it, 

Winds of rough nature—further molding it.

So, to come home and unfold it to you.


Flying above daffodils.

History of our lands—
these crumbled stones,
slowly eaten and swallowed by the meadows.

This fatigued yore—I did pass too.

Again, reverently saving it; 

from the hungry eyes,

from the hectic minds.

Delivering it, like a ring of my devotion—to you.