I know not to swim; there is a flash flood in the eyes. A melancholic melody is travelling through my neural ravine to my brain when I write, I stop not the song for the brain remembers the days of the past as same as the song. Water blurs my sight as the song goes deep in to the soul. It is the play of the hippocampus to conjure the years of life in minutes of the song and the music dilates the condensed memories to eyes that witnessed the past. If it is a war with blades and swords, I can shed blood and flesh; why not some parts of the body too! But people are good with words than swords for it’s the only weapon against the brave when they are down in ground with wounds in heart. In the race to gain paper money how many hearts were torn! In the race to gain power how many souls were burnt!
It is not the wound that hurts, not the flesh that was burnt, or not the hand that has cut but the scares. It is when the heart it at its weakest selfish people inject venom in the vain. When you cannot smile is when the snakes show their pangs. It is better to live with the serpents that kill with one strike, the intention is clear, but the almighty potter has slept while making some pots that make much noise in the name of love with a layer of poison inside. You eat in that pot daily, pinch by pinch, only to know that it is not the god that made the pots wrong but the pots drank poison from the place it was sold.
Never once the traitors think the pain of the sufferers; when you live the life of happiness pushing others in to the abyss. When you live in the garden filled with flowers and trees and with your off springs, the one you pushed in to the active volcano dies day by day with his skins burnt, flesh rotten, organs scorched, and the soul tarnished. The heart fumes with rage when the sleep is spoiled by the pangs of the betrayal and soul succumbs whenever a tiny fingers falls in the eyes and small feet kicks the air and sings the song of cry.
May you all, that believe you can comfort in the agony of others, live long.