Rustling leaves in an enchanting forest;
deep within a soul cries.
Leaves are dead, yet they make sound;
with each breath he so tries.
Balmy air, don’t go the farthest;
yet the inkling of the desire.
A laughing man, whom sorrow hound;
the habit of playing with the fire.
A stream's flute plays the strongest;
when the mountains breaks the ice.
At a binging heart, beats the devils pound;
give it the pain, but doesn't suffice.
A fakir walks alone into a land strangest;
whom the heralding dogs denounce.
That empty mind has wisdoms round;
he knows not why they trounce.
Falling rain ebb to the sea largest;
it cares not for the echoing screams.
Those mighty steps, are surely profound;
like dancing with the penchant dreams.
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