Like a stream he flows-
Through the forest, between the fields-
Savouring the journey, as he swirls-
Dancing down the course, full of life.
The roots of which, were deep,
Reached down to the heart, maybe more-
To the bottomless abyss of his life.
The stream has flown through silver-scapes,
Through countless tides on the darkest nights,
To become a river, tranquilizing storms,
Harbouring love through stream of consciousness.
By the bank, as the sand posed to be of glittering silver,
Under the twilight of his long lashes with blithe quiver-
There was a hut, with red tiles on the tranquil roof
An abode built with happiness but distant a bit aloof,
Living a dream waiting for love and to be loved,
Reflecting the love in every drop of the stream,
Dispersing love, the way colourful flags;
Of the saint, disperse faith, fluttering in the wind.
The stream was like a dream, like a home,
As he wore every aroma, like an aura;
The fragrance was left incomplete without him,
Carrying as his own, as he ran with aurora.
Every curve, every scour brimmed him in life-
The red tiles counted every scar,
The raconteur sang the stories of the stream,
Little did he know he was known in stars.
The saga of the landscape glorified every dream
Like the twists, like the turns, she made it to the stream-
The walls held the tiles high, counting the silver-grains,
Surrounded by sunflowers, dripping to the golden gleam.
