An old soul,
Seems to have taken over the words,
Written, felt and auto written.
This is not me,
Or may be it is,
I don't even know.
How with a hundred Hellos,
There is silence in the soul.
How with a reasonably busy day,
There is time which doesn't go.
How it takes a thousand sounds,
To cut a familiar echo,
Etched in the heart.
And how it is just this Echo,
You really need to feel home.
May be this is not me.
It is someone else,
An old soul,
Auto writing this all.
