My soul ...
is my samuder
when tears and laughter waded through the ocean of time
sailing along the waves
crashing foam looking for a place to dock
I am a man
who was born from the womb of the age
nurtured by the silent fingers of life
and great in the embrace of storms of suffering
I am like dust flying
dwells among the breeze
who plays in the park park daylight
and pulled over behind the heart of the night
My story is simple
just a piece of a story does not mean anything
a song of silence behind the discordant words
which flows in the hoarseness of the voice of the soul
when the dream has been frozen in the face of tears
My dream is simple
no need to be a star or a moon
also jasmine or rose
it is enough to be a grass in the middle of the field
or a clump of weeds on the edge of the field