Like the story of old
About the daughter of the wind, choose the box or the box,
Though the later too rickety, dusty and torn
...and the glowing was the choice,
Rots and rust encroached in it, not a sight to behold,
It is said not all that glitters are gold but can reaching for the cloudy considered bold?
No, not in a world where all must unfold.
There is a thousand and one to fear about choices,
Fears of ending in the plight of lot,
It's more like the game of casting lots, which you expect a trophy or end in loss.
