Little mice, little mice.
The talk is from one above the horizon,
One who you look up to,
One who you talk to about your dreams,
The very one your watery brain has left with thoughts of fixing your fits, fitting your shoes on your feet till it fits,
and strategizing your every means.
The very one who you think went to a battle with a thousand warlord and he conquered sleep.
Working tirelessly and aimlessly, you think for a moment one like us won’t slack up their grip and slip lightly into the hands of sleep.
Wake up! Wake up!
You heard the shallow tone, same ones you have looked up to,
Leveraging strength for a cry and you would be quick to figure out the very fact that you are weak.
You know you are six to thirty one on the max, and since you are a short one who yearns for height, shorting one off seven as earlier said, makes you six instead of a seven then you are still like an incomplete week.
I give you not eternity to fix this puzzle!
Let’s see what you come up with, in a week.
What keeps the fire burning?
The height of the candle?
Or the flames coined off fire?
Have you ever thought of what was going to get lightened if the candle had no wick.
Little mice, listen to me with your heart up,
Your tail might not do this well, listen to me with that furrow after your arched brows, reflecting humbleness.
Take your hats off.
We are not God,
We are just little men on the horizon far off where your dream land would ever be if you would self grant it reality.
We are not men who doesn’t have eyes,
One that would flick close when we take a little dose,
Sinking into the arms of the soft rocky chair for a sleepy pose.
We are just men who sacrificed all for all and never gave up after we failed the whole of our world,
Offended our family, gave talks to foes.
Little mice, we are men who never gave up.
We are men who sold our sleep to the hands of grand master ‘JOB DONE BEFORE REST COMES’