Another evening,
A quiet one,
As he sails through the sunset,
Kutanda is miles away,
Yet his heart rejoices,
The battle only known to mad people,
The language that has no sound,
He beholds the moment,
Taking in every painful pinch,
That pinch of kutanda's absence
He wails aloud,
The voice that echoes with pride,
With desperacy,
The blowing wind of cause,
Finding its way into dying caves,
The reason to write,
To fill the void of loneliness,
For a stranger, the truth,
For kutanda,
His unfailing kutanda.
For she is but kutanda
The kutanda of his life.
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