Loved the way the bluest sky,
Often the tiniest bits of it,
twinkles through the green leaves,
And when it race you to there.
The black roads untouched,
Memories of tires burnt long ago,
He woke them up with love,
They carried him all the way,
following the high heart.
Sunk in the mountain fogs,
Embracing the fresh paths of woods,
Lively streams quenched the thirst,
made him high for more.
Wanderlust was always at edges,
Loving to get lost to find himself.
But was stringed to bright screens,
Lame faces and not the free birds,
Or the wild flowers he wanted.
Stuck stuck stuck
With the world he loathed,
And the bookworm he couldn't count on.
As always he wanted to fly.
He was meant to.
