In the morn, thrice and twice a string,
Among the masses, laughter, and screaming,
Where aptitude and acumen brings
To your eyes, a clouded seeming.
A swarming exodus, amidst the people,
Yet there you stand, stoic and tall.
I must admit, not even the highest steeple
Could tear my eyes from your poised drawl.
Silken strands that hide a grey
Veiled beneath a fragrance of green,
An eternal glance that haunts today,
Like a picture in a dream.