Time has many corridors,
Where the poets write on walls
Sketching all their feelings, high and low
A voice embedded in its stones,
To the passersby, will call!
In the quiver of the heart, the cold wind blows
Rhythms of expressions
Are the cobblestones of our days
Words are gathered with the edge of night
As the wind is howling,
Clarity comes their way
And on the walls, the poet has to write.