Again he saunters into the boulevard of life,
Tired, Disheveled, the wear of sojourn arching his back.
But his thirst is ravenous, the hunger insatiable,
The hunger to win, the hunger to strive, it fuels the senses, fires the drive
As he flings away the baggage of foes, packs the sac with words of wise
His fervour becons with excitement of uncharted lands, In his eyes the crimson of pluck gallores
For at heart he is but a traveller, his life a procession of uncharted dreams
And again he augurs on another path, a path more perilous, a path more beguile,
Oh! he is all but an undaunted soul, For He would die on the road than at home lie.