chronicles of Vagabond hounds

The clouds were angry that day,

the wind was in a mood to play,

shook the trees to their roots,

and the soil hung in the air.

The rustle that day was deafening,

so was the howling of wind.

The helmets saved our hairs,

but soiled were our beards,

as if of a dirt struck homeless,

and the mud had our bikes and apparels foiled.

Sure it was a hard day to ride,

but the mountains ahead fueled our might,

and I laughed through the calamity,

with my brothers at my side.

We looked for a place to sleep,

but the road seemed safer than the dancing trees,

and finally the clouds decided to weep,

but we knew stopping would cost us our peace.

So the engines roared and so did we,

the wrists were twisted with the full throttle,

Our vision speared through the nature's spree,

until we spotted that god hill.

The downpour questioned our madness,

madness of riding thhrough the highest grounds,

through the cataclysmic nature's mess,

and we answered in growls of our vagabond hounds.