Roamed, rode the road before, with the same air around,
Grouped with the same feeling but the journey this time was straight and found,
Fiery and feisty was the path that led to the shine,
I was on the path until I saw a shrine.
Met a man, without a name, with his head covered with snow,
I kept on wondering as to why he was carrying a glow.
Lived in the shrine around that holy road,
So far away from the rest that along many miles no one could be heard.
Took my time and stayed at the shrine for the night,
Unknown to what was there under his mighty plight,
Brought on to the table, the book, along with his pipe,
Kept a piece of bread, and sat along with his dignity and pride.
Picture this, old rusted, dusty, worned off,
Book was heavy but it carried a strange light.
Turned the page and found out was carrying my name,
With every single page carried my glory and fame,
Stored and lost in those pages, wandered,
Who was this old man, and what is this shrine I started to wonder.
Moved on to every page and found out the turn of events,
Till I reach the page which told about the old man , his shrine and waited for a further advent,
The pages were blank, fresh , waiting to be written,
Confused and bound, I must be mistaken.
The old man stood up, gave me keys and said,
‘I m the One, who doesn’t belong here,
I write the rules, those which I never share’.
For it was time to march forward,
Because he had to write what I was supposed to do and moved on.
Returned back on the same old road to find a sign,
“He was never here”
Carrying a smile, Roamed, rode the road before, with the same air around,