Pages of his book was a misty blur
often when the blindest are youthful eyes
dreaming,longing for a divine spark….
Love partakes of the soul itself
it is of the same nature
it is a point of fire within us
which is immortal and infinite
but as age sits down with the setting sun
he realized that life is fiction
dreamt of a spot concealed world without end
where all his heartaches would wash away
as the waves die down with the fading breeze
he realized when the struggle ends
that pomps of life never last for long….