A wave crafts her reverie

In this daunting spirit

Which hallmarks this sturdy Leo

She begins to admire

Her steadfastness

Her concentration

Her love with solitude

Her mettle for braving the puerile winds out there…

You are the mistress of your reverie, my dearie

Craft it

As You Like It


What You Will.

It’s all yours, O Lioness of the Wave.

“The road not taken”- a remarkable composition of Robert Frost :-) :-) It’s very close to my heart <3

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Dear Rudyard Kipling, your exquisite composition is on my mind and in my heart… All thanks for “IF” :-) :-) :-) :-)

If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

A wave’s decision

It’s the decision of

The wave

To keep surging


To hit the unmoved rocks





And “let” the rocks shake off their


The wave moves on


Swerves to serve the

Call of the



The Luna

And, yet

Her aim is self-destined

Her focus is clear

Her vision is immutable


Her path is straight

Undettered by the strewn flowers


Mutilated corpses

That attempt to bar the


The wave

The wave

The wave