Wounds are always be in the grey side of tear's colours, I wonder if smile comes with breathe towards stress and not uses to come and go as hurricane but the place we use in our heart stays clean as we use to pray by spirit and wishing to see the miracle of hope in our every corner. When these wounds will be gone...Why they like to be with me all the time as I'm responsible to take care of them... Life's wounds seem just like a two shore of river sometimes, it goes in the right way and sometimes left but it'll never stop to flowing. There are two words I like to live in "love and imagination", sounds like gain or loose but it's hard to choose any one, both are special in their own way. Without any imagination I can't express my love in the candle lights, at least there always be so many beautiful riches in imagination towards love. All I need is that small magic to light my confusing way and that will not be a happy ending either because there are forces holding me outside of these two words. Door of one is always close and one I am not invited, faith had kept me in this world where I am always wrong hanging by the hope of someday. I'm believed that any one words will let me in but still I will be crying to let another hopes pass by.

When I look up to the night sky above from the bridge of my lost village, with all its twinkling stars I feel, the moon leisurely hovering around the night sky amongst the private company of pristine stars underneath the domicile of charismatic miracle sometimes, when I get depressed and low from my window, soothing the thirst of all ensnared by the affinity amongst the mortals soul in this replica of paradise, not far away from my forgotten home, emblems the growth of the sun from deep down inside the womb of earth and galvanizes the surroundings with its tranquillity bedecked by the grandeur of entrancing luminosity, salubrious zephyr from the immaculate forest and the soul towards the ecstasy of heaven. And surrounding by soothes of the tiredness, of the village folks who all day in the remote field labours much these domestic animals, munches together as well as the grasses in the pastoral with natural love... But yes wounds remain me truth of sense in reality but it hurts. It's gone these entire roads behind my corridor flying with the clouds and may be never come back...

Festival...There's a melody of festival that nearly follows me for nearly ten years. My eyes blithely open at the pitch darkness of the night, whether it's midnight that very melody pours in my ears. Somewhat, like the tintinnabulation of a bell of a temple, as if somebody is perpetually playing on the piano with the same cord along with so many tune of traditional music. There's a flute, a violin and there's a verse propagated from its medley. That melody is constantly striking in my ears. Music is a subject of love; it's a subject to be absorbed and to be felt by different ray of seasons. Under the cover of the night, that signal, that melody is ceaselessly thrusting in my ears continue. I fear, if any body will ever understand the meaning of my sleepless eyes of that divine and troublesome melody on the basis of the expression of a novice and inept deepest feelings of wounds that bring me remembrances impossible to avoiding, and here I feel like crying... Nights are the asset of an individual's home; nights are spent as per our wishes whether we're a rich or a beggar. In the same name of nightfall festival some may steal wake of love, some may steal sleeping of rose but my wounds are stealing my tears in the midnight...

-Written by Simon Rimal