We always crave for the things that we do not have
And ignore the bucket full of smiles lying around
Is it the irony of our times, we realize too late
The sparks of light on the way, seem like a bait
Life tests us often, and tries it old tricks, without a slip, or a slate
We miss the friends, fellows and all those
Who walked and walked along for thousand of miles
In search of truth that some considered a waste
For others, a mistaken adventure, of dried twigs and tears, just a paste
I am not sure, if I know, whether I will walk long enough
Some times, I might stumble, without having a hand to hold
Your shadows will chase me, even if you are too tired to stand
I will come back, with lot of flowers, some hot soup, and a warm hand