Yet the golden bell
when tune wakes up from the sorrow
as inspiring by the hope of tomorrow
the dream when jingles by the green
the graceful glow
when painted by the rays of rainbow
when unseen into the folds of the cloud
the morning as delightful by the mirror
searching upon the milieu
the gleeful flairs as glazed
when delved out from the crowd deep
as shimmering across the moon
when untouched even by the rain
the mute voices when besotted
by the cuckoo’s song
the breath slithers one after the other
the dream onto the hope unexhausted
by the quests and queries
for the musk to follow
still we move by the passion
pattens never seem to be of your own