Same old, same old.
The vigour in me never mellowed...
Same old, same old.
The same spirit also followed.
Clouds harrowed, in my head.
Reverie glowed, in my memory track.
That my marrow is made from gold
never stopped the fate from giving me a whack.
I fell.
All of my sorrows, I plowed.
They are like snow-
cold, white and pure,
but too much of them!
...blocks my road.
How are your spirit and soul?
Same old, same old.
Fire tests gold.
Nik Soffiya
