No one soul is like another,
In consideration or colour,
In movement or thought.
The disease of spirit that covers
Our face and impregnates our dream,
Can only be fought
With deep and flesh grown faith,
A higher purpose, moulded from grains of sand,
From which we are born
and to whom we return.
For those that never sense this love,
Though they may possess
the entirety of man,
They will never understand,
The happiness of nothing,
Save sandalwood, rainfall
And the faint melodic breath of sea.