Standing tall, oblivious to your own shade;
Ages pass by thee, age old feels, pass by thee.
Holding your head still and high, almost proud;
Pride, is that your word? Have you heard of it, Love?
Bearing fruits of passion and of patience.
Year after year, those kids they throw pebbles,
Sweet your fruits, bitter your seeds.
Enigma to the oblivion, no, not to me.
I, the nomadic, the uprooted, hail thy stupidity.
Land, country, pride, mean none, I know but one;
Words the speechless; feelings the soundless;