my father never taught me to be a man ,
he only showed me how to eat up miles with my bare bare legs while the sun tanned hot sand map various routes on our feets, mother never learned me in the art of mounding mountains from tiny dots of ambition, but good moon light stories we received and we grew from the experience of those stories.
Growinggg as a boy, mounting the Clift of my dreams with dogged determination, trying to build my Castles in quartered slums .
Boys are not stones if you could see the avalanche of sorrow gathering like clouds at the corners of their eyes. If only you could see the volumes of tears absorbed by their pillows , the fly over stones they lay their heads at night, if you could see over our dreams.