Behind the insurmountable bars of passion,
In this place, the clock’s hands are blunt.
An emancipating enthrallment
Where only those adopted
By death are free.
Content and lucky as some feel to be there,
Deluded and born without luck
Some others want impossible freedom
But old wit can find them no way out
For it is a wiser permanent justice.
Stray luck only can or may,
Still freedom will be soiled by scarring memories.
There shall never be a narrow to escape,
And sentenced to love by fate
For an offence of living
To a deep confinement
With myriad corners to explore
And get lost.