Again and over again I walk forward;
And thus I come back nearer to my graveyard
Where no thorn, fern or forget-me-not has grown.
The end is the beginning of new life it’s known.
No harsh winds of season or torrents of rains
Can wash away all my pleasures and my pains.
Though they’ve swept up the junk yet entire spot
Can’t conceal the canvas of my silly thought.
Blending both sun and moon with nature sublime
With wonderful colours of clean space and time,
I paint my petty mind and my youthful portrait
On my would-be tomb so simple and so straight.

Under the kiosk of busy Imlong Place lies
Not my own statue but my spirit that cries.