A Bumpy road,
Winter winds to blow the soul,
Two people they rode,
With no Direction, no goal.
Mustard fields whistled past the road-sides,
Yellow’d in harvest,
Glittering in gold, in the light of the dying sun.
Black curtains, soft-kill the light
Flocks of bird flee past the skies, that bleed now a blue
Flying away from a deathly winter night.
Lights, slowly surfaced
And the sky was then lit,
By A million stars,
illuminating their scars.
It was clear now, to them
Just like the skies,
That they needed nothing,
That everything important was unimportant,
that the truth,
Lay in the yonder,
In Unseen valleys,
And pained hearts.
It was clear now,
that nothing was more important,
Than the skies they were seeing,
than the moment they were living.