How many of your friends will I get to see? How many thorns and leaves will they trudge before me? Young lad, you always visit me with your little friends of fun and the light they exude in your photograph demonstrates a world on the flip side. While I am cooking and eating darkness in my plate, yours is a slate of fresh days with real leaves, and warm earth. How can you hold on to something as rare and beautiful as the life of light in your palms? How did you do it young lad? There’s everything I see that’s still unknown to me…Everything in this world yet I can’t get to see. Is the world from there so different from here? I can’t wait for you to tell me. Young lad, where else can I pick those real fruits? Where are those valleys with rivers? I’d love to sit and wash my face from old poetry. Where can I have them when I am living behind the white curtains, a bunk bed and a tainted window for the sick people? There are only whites as pale as my bloodless lips, cold hands and weak feet. And my food is served before me. The water I drink is not from the Himalayas but from modern capsules that says “nature’s spring water.” Young lad, beyond my window are rugged rooftops and a grey sky. It always rains here and when you said that rain can make your skin glow I felt like bathing under it oh the fun I’ll never get to feel and will be left unknown to me. Young lad, I’m eager to hear from you. Your music is what I only know of as I write. May the breeze really carry not only the smell of a morning dew, the enthusiasm of your small friends but a new life for me too.