Here I’m collecting wreckages of an unsought battle.
Half covered in the sands of time.
I shudder back at a wreck which reflects my implicit fear.
My reflective squirm is too low to be heard.
Or is it the wind that is howling fast?
Autumn wind continues to blow,
Filling me with essence, and drying away my tears.
I mustn’t deter nor should I stop,
For the wrecks are strewn far and wide:
So is the desert.
P.S: We cannot understand certain things for the only reason, they being simple.