On my lucky day
I find rare people
With modest charm
They are down to earth

Too down,
To understand them well

I think,
I have to reach deep down
Below the soil
If not in this life
Probably in the next

To understand them well.

I remember blue skies and laying there
Staring at each others faces
You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen
And I knew.

I'm not myself when I write like this.

I am no more than a memory.

An ink well river which flows and bleeds on tempered sands.

Forever resting at the foothill of childhood.

I am.