There are artists, and poets, There are writers, and the ones who write duets. All of them write for each other, About each other, for they know what they go through, And decorate it with their purest ornaments that wouldn't decay, For centuries or so. And all the centuries that passed, Like grains of sand, slipping away from my palm, Did ever someone come across? Why in the world, art created such a charm? The times when poetry stopped paying bills, The artists roamed in desolation, Music and stories that rested them to sleep, All in the morning, Called it the poor man's incarnation. Oh such impostors we are, In the face of love, Mock them in the broad daylight, To find our existence in their words at night. Oh, that you laugh, you laugh not on them, But on the face of insanity, You had been a part of, And too not willing to part. The coexistence of love and war, Of triumph and disaster has ever been the same, So Why do we not end this conflict, As at the end, we all are those Wildflowers, That grow in the nastiest places, In the worst of times, Yet deem ourselves too different.