Their story isn't mine,
Mine will not resemble their's.
Yet when they meet me,
I feel a sense of bonhomie.
Plucking the strings of my heart,
They whisper in continuum.
About their struggles and triumphs,
And I care to listen.
For long has their crown been spoilt,
Rolled about in dirt and squalor.
Maybe I will grant them a place,
Their rightful place in my heart.
The chapters roll over like dice,
A number resembling cup of feelings.
The book lengthens for time unknown,
For they have much to tell.
It is a tale of richness of soul,
How much it gives without expectations.
How lovely it makes people feel,
Resplendent and glorious in life.
Nature's nature is indeed fabulous,
As virgin and gentle as it can be.
If places were exchanged sometime,
I would urge almighty to replace me.
