Eight-pointed, satin star that longing tourists depict.
Eight directions to voyage before falling onto the bended knees
on the maiden snow and silently pray to God,
thanking him that there was enough of you to return,
To notice unknown, innocent residents of the metropolis and adore them
with all your might for even the brilliants came up
On your pale cheeks. You hid your faithfulness to this realm
Under seven locks, in an unfortunate attempt to bury it from your heart,
Not to root millions of seeds of pain during those many years you were out.
Instead, you aimed to disregard the sorrow that smashed to smithereens your heart,
And invested your energy in knowledge,
Overcoming all of the difficulties of being taught to.
A single noble basis progressed all this hectic, frantic chaos in your
misted mind and heart. A family.
Only one realm. Only two towns. You saved your
pledge to such an internal announcement that it was the worst of times,
It was the best of times. Just like every other common matter we see day after day.
