On the green terrain of the fortitude,

I have built a house out of the broken bricks,

and the pebbles, they had thrown at me.

And have painted my rooms bright, with the redness

of the volcanic wound, they had bequeathed me.

And I’ve planted the thorns they had pierced

me with, in the garden, hoping to see them

blossom into the flowers of the serenity.

O God! I thank them for giving me everything.

What they’d hurled at me were you, yourself to me.

“The beauty of that moment,” I shall never, never forget!

They were throwing broken bricks at me, and I was

building a house with it. I was weaving my dreams with it.

Now, the course of my life is as sweet as the breeze.

Inside the house there is a new world waiting for me.

Had they known then that, I would be using

those bricks and the pebbles to build my

house, then they would not have gifted me

those  ingredients. Poor them, what was rubbish

to them, turned out to be too valuable for me.

They were blinded by disgust; they saw nothing.

Ah! But I saw you in those bricks, and piled them up,

until I build a house………until I build a house.

Proud, very proud I am now, I shall be telling

my kids and my grand kids, with a silken smile

on my face, some where in time that,

I had built a house out of the broken bricks,

they had hurled at me…they had hurled at me.

And had painted my rooms bright, with the redness

of the volcanic wound, they had bequeathed me.