Professions are like insomniac people in the cardigan of humans
They are fragile, strong,choosable, and full of strife
To someone like having a foolish wife
They are like irked people having something to cripple
Or red roses in the bed of liberation .

Some choose what they want and some crave what they can't
Some laugh on some and some cry on their fate wholesome
Some write on love and some work to save the love,some make things to lifelight the love
And some sit to make and love what they create

Wheelwright is such a profession where man is creating wood and remembers his childhood...
How he saw the crow through the cave of his eyebrow
How he laughed when he fell from wood
How he dreamt of living a knighthood
How he snowballed his anger in a second like moving a hanger
And how he leapt to catch the crow but couldn't and accepted his failure...