Mourning the Deluge

Something was not polite in signs. The smell of incarcerated bed of gods was floating down. A subdued shadow of black moon was climbing on the window. And each house had offered a son, to rage a war of retribution. Malice towards one and everybody, they were ready to cut the hands who were holding the book. Out of the ore comes out the gold, when you use mercury. Vacant eyes have the veils of tears. Dampness was melting the bones. The mud on the face, a gift of birthday. SATISH VERMA