The gold pot once buried
Doesn't tread back the same path
And hence the blood in my veins
Won't flow back
If the clod in the front door
Doesn't try to tell my story.
It's winter, my body burns with fever.
If I don't peep through the clouds,
I won't be able to see you dead.
If I don't touch the stars, I can't hold you back.
Now if you ask to paint back the 400BC paintings...
I will not make a difference.
I will make a thoughtful aspect like an ape with a book.
There would be silence if the dumb sky doesn't decide to throw up.
If you never got the pain. You haven't been full of hopes.
It's winter but the trees haven't dried up.
Yet, there's still a point in time.
If I don't decide to walk up to you,
I will be speechless.
