My pen can't be forced,
'Cause, It's not just the ink,
It's the soul that I pour.
Whatever meadows I may paint,
The wastelands I shall brew,
The sky that asks for forgiveness,
And the mother wanting to hold her son.
I'm only saying: "This world is far more magical!"
Where I breathe in verse,
And reminisce in chorus.
Here and there I might sing another ballad,
A poetic dance of stars,
Resonance of sun and moon.