Ever heard of Smoke Town,
Not far from the Main Street?
Son of men live in united fury,
In the convent of thatch roofs.

Dreams had long been labeled,
The supreme identity of the lost,
Those whose hearts are made,
In the depth of making a mark.

They are very few in number,
Struggling in that boiling town,
Some survive without smiles,
Others left to nowhere near.

There are many others,
The owners of the town,
Hairs wrapped in insanity,
Not because they are mad.

Those are the human chimneys,
Men of questionable features,
Dead in thoughts and mind,
Never to...