India, Oct. 8 -- We are the echoes of forgotten words, carried by wings that never return. In the quiet hum of restless mind, we seek the truth we cannot find. Beneath the weight of ink and stone, we wear our names, but feel alone. The books we read, the test we take, our mirrors of the lives we fake. What is the word of what we see? A number, a mark, a fleeting plea? Which is the shadows of distant dreams. But in the case, we lose the gleam. For the soul does not bent to time, it seems not in the rhyme of line or climb. It rises when the word falls asleep. In the silence where the echo we keep....