Inked

Those winds of the souvenirs;

Often fly back to play;

Those lost tales of life;

Buried in the whirlwinds;

Of epoch; As the soul cruise;

Through those ebbs touching;

Upon those stories,

Relaying the souls;

Of the tale; Nevertheless,

The soul sighs a bit,

As the epoch's mystic of watching,

Those scenes departed;

It is indeed ecstatic.