His hermit has my imprints
His fissures has my humid self
His foils have my risen wings
He is tired for sure
He is trembling at shades
He is not a tyrant of turmoils
He is yet a witness to wicked weathers
He is a timeless glass
He is yet a time locked puzzle
He is an imagined imprint
He is yet a deluge off a dream coast
He is an instant fiddle
He is a yet a persistent pedestrian
He is now a happy hermit
He is yet perennial nomad
He is but not a lattice leech
He is a dexterous balance
He is my line between nomad and abode
I happened to be besides his hermit today
I happened to see what all virtues he had
All the virtues that made him wrong
All the virtues I forsake for my rights
My rights are rightfully wrong upon him
His wrongs are willfully right upon me
He, himself, his hermit, itself, they will hoist my future
I, myself, my humid haste, they witness his hallmarks
It is a a country road that connects us
A cross road to a collective chaos in the middle
