Whenever the Sun of our lives meets the sudden horizon and sets beyond the last breath of the breeze it created, the end comes galloping as the four horsemen of the apocalypse true and takes us by unnarrated suprise. Our faces narrate this suprise. It kidnaps our peace and does not care. It lands a heavy blow to the bubble of our worlds and still does not care. It darkens the moon of our dark times and imprisons us in igloos of gloom but still does not care. It keep us silence, as lambs led to slaughter and it does not care. It takes us away from the terrains of love and friendship and yet does not care. Will it even mark our graves therein? Or does it record our joyous times on sandy plains And then erode our names therein? It pretends our memories are flowers that wither wherein the Sun no longer shines. The amicable wave waves bye bye, as it reluctantly dies inenvitably on the sandy shores. The end still will not care but I do, even in the end.
Posted on: Tue, 20 Aug 2013 08:29:17 +0000
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