Of every dream which repeats,
within its barriers of sensible holocaust. 
Apparent ambivalent monotony, swings with illusive luxuries. 
Desires hope to keep a pace, in a long upturned race, but fail. 

I rush to sneak happiness,
with my deserted mindstream.

I would gaze with a walk of my pace rather, in the lonely wood surrounded by maples brown, with my journal and a forklore tale mused, staring at the huge sky and sense the silence.

//I can feel time running in a speedy rush, neglecting all stories and sweeping past. Trading humours in defamy and gallaries of memories, leaving me behind, but I ain't running after//

 I search for myself, a deeper within,
greater happiness, wider journeys to travel along.

 //Now I can feel time running faster than before, people suffering, hindering in their longings, but none ahided one. None felt when something vanished, yet not care when it livingly tarnished. They are on the perpetual cycle of striving to end fast, forgetting to find satisfaction in values of little things, leaving me behind, but I ain't running after//

I ain't running beside to have a jolt of airlift, nor lagging behind, having felt a wilder distant. 

I go slow watching my pace of circumstances around, and won't desist to feel the worth for, hunting like a corker. 
I walk past gardens of tainted maples, feeling a truer value for life and sweep past all beauties and tragedies.