It is here the passing breeze was born
the wind of stories from east is grown
the clouds of sorrows, the clouds now gone
took hope away for every day.

It’s here I thought I should exist
a deserted place with no hope or regret
so tell me why I feel the lost
to whom I should be here, or not.

It’s here I thought I would have found
in what I didn’t, I could create,
I would try to invent an existing shape
who told me of the coming days.

It’s here within the knowledge of myself
I could pretend to be me, a true gift
the secret of life, the reason for being
and also for you to now exist.

It’s here I struggle with the passing breeze
in the wind of stories through days and nights
with countless torches the many faces to lit
and thousand voices of sorrows to rise.

Nov 2015 k.c.