Wind blows portend, as the sphinx arises,
Buckled to his heart- bristle consequences of mankind’s revolt;
Not willing to share; this which brings him bulk mirth- gaiety of his possession, his knowledge obscure to others.
Locked up in the silent chambers of solitude,
wrapped in his own dogmatic saying: non but I.
He becomes the grim in quietude, creeping the maze of lone; digging even more darkness to his shadows- he blurs his own vision thinking he’s wise.
Because he has never lost in war does not mean he would not lose in this battle.
For nature shall rise against him, like plant in spring.
Though she’s miles away but I can hear her calm whispers;
She is coming…