“Times have passed beyond my maneuver,
I can no longer start the seasons all over.
Reality is that the spring has gone,
That summer’s bout to end
And rain has begun.
Poems after poems I have written,
My hands seemingly unweary to seek for pen.
Does this contradict the reality I once knew,
The irony is that I write as if
It is my first for you.
If routine begets mundanes and stagnates,
For the past seasons I must have lost tastes.
But now reality unbelievably tells me,
In your face I am still a wanderer
Lost in space, as if the first time I see.
Now I reject that there is loss of sensitivity,
My nerves in your arms still feels all vibrancy.
My words like now are still so hooked–
In the persona I found not just a chapter
But the rest of the book.
Hence, even if an undecillion seasons pass,
This habit I’ve found– its freshness shall last.
For the irony that changed my reality
Is penned in every page of my days–
I am holding tight in front of me.”