This short poem has shown about our journey of life with the path...
Clouds float across the sky,
floating on swaying rice.
The path is tilted,
Draws in its own way.
All words lost in a sweet tone,
The risk of drawing in black is color today in its own color.
The talk was when the mind was bored to go back,
The desire to be alone was the wind,
The wing was the mind alone.
The path mates match the path,
The path knows the new path,
When night comes at the bend of the path,
The path shows the new day.
On the way, Someone new is alone in the house,
And the flame of light burns.
Forget the path is dark...
© 2021 Hidden Writer