As the bib of my pen runs through those spotless lines,
there is a mirth washing the sorrow of every passing age.
When these hands speak their entire life of macabre,
the eyes shed silent tears leaving no scars behind.
The fallout’s of this soul mock at the seers of the body,
cause this soul had traces of happiness and colours of sorrow in the art of heart.
But my cosmo Macadam the future cause I am a believer,
Hoping that the Cosmo won’t be sottish lining it .
My woes are shaped once more to the path of smoothness and freshness on these blank pages,
Until it leads to thorny ways again.