Whispers

No no no , pass not to the red mist lake,
For  you are not wrong,
And have never been late,
Whispers of an old man , clung to a cane.

With rush of blood , to his cold head,
The past ,  the thoughts are never-ending,
Oh God,  he wonders,  can he  ever  grasp ?,
Grains of the sacred and  pure  golden sand.

Just a dream within a dream,
He deeply hopes all these  be,
Because when he wakes  up,
The real nightmare begins.