It’s enfolding, the forgotten me,
the dead me and the rising me,
a prose of love,
and some poetries of life.
It stretches me out,
from the life of hazards,
to the life of wonders.
Like a lyrics,
Written on breaths,
It sings inside,
to make a charm,
Blowing up the faces.
It feels the joy,
Of creating thoughts,
the ink of zeast,
Filled to the life,
Writing on the lives,
Of an small ant,
to huge vampires.
It surrenders to me,
the weapons of creativity,
To pave a way,
for a blind kid, like me
Who can’t see the life,
the life of wonders,
Filled with joy.
To the heaven, which is here,
And nothing is beyond,
it blow up the mind,
to fill the with lights,
The light of creativity,
for the lives with art.
