As decided by the fate,
I dragged my feet on director’s slate.
Clouds were dark,
Sun showed only vain
Until the knock of that skylark grained,
And removed its unbelievable vile.

Nightingale’s lyrics enraptured the heart,
And concealed to heal in a dart.

Soar high the spirits,
To converge with this Kindred Spirit,
Heart filled with joy exult,
Alien to an own anomaly,
Everyday travel of parabolic,
With the thorn of mythical bolt.
Awaiting to disappear.
Respectfully respecting the dear fear,
As expectants of time's disappear.