Dear Wiseman, what are those scars on your legs?
Still working for the son to wrap your band to his shoulders?
Where is he? Doesn’t he know your death wind is approaching?
To him you were working for years, restlessly veiling wounds to every corner?
Count your fingers, the things that remained in you are those pieces of clothes, mourning tears, wounds and if light is in wayside then it’s your shadow…
Busy in search of reckless heart, that hand is packing huge sins in his bag…