It's a story only I and you know
who knows who you are ... You are no one
You are the vague imagination of existence ...you are the fantasy of deads
It's a story of the one
with grey faces of regret, with black mask of repentance , with a rended cloth of compunction and a heart so heavy,
The ruby has become part of gold and silvers in the contrived dust and rust of the swirling tornado
The teller of the story is told to see inside the wounded heart
but to raise hands up to the skies...
making him immensely perplexed ..with the spin of beautiful words
The war between men of heart and giants of gold has raised the havoc of mighty tarnados around the nine marks of nine cities
directed to plunder the flower and it's fragrance
the story has just begun
questioning how you survived through the reckless dark night? Or Did you...?