I wonder why I always paint a picture which gets washed away before it gets dried. I ponder why I always plant a sapling which does not simply stand the test of time.
I know that drops make an ocean. But with me, the drops get converted into water vapors. I ruminate why the flower always wriggles out before it blooms.
I mull why I always build castles of sand only to see them washed away by the waves - of time. I think why I always weave some dreams, only to see the threads get torn away.
A dream I weave,
Try my best to conceive,
It only does me deceive,
My heart does grieve,
Circumstances urge me to unweave,
Yet, I will try again.. to weave.
