It is a narrow and bending road,
Hard to know when it begins,
Harder to know when it ends;
Mysteries varied from snails to men,
On grassy hill-tops, on winds and seas.
A well contoured mother,
Harlots adorned in silk and spike heels;
Sometimes a brittle history,
Penned between the pages;
Perpetuating itself in different stages.
It is colors swashed across the skies
With infinite glitters bending high;
As suns and moons
Talk with spirits and stars;
Symphony of its complexities,
In the immortal hyphen,
Marked by sighs and bliss
Or parables begging for clarity,
In a jungle where chaos reigns supreme;
And with all this, life is worth living.