Crisis

To drill a hope in the drowned soul was very difficult, winds had blown away the talisman. Stress was palpable, you could tear the weather with empty hands. Mists had walked into the houses to pick up the burning cheeks. Man was playing with nature until death time. Stones piled up, burning tyres on the road. Visionaries were celebrating the all blinds day, in an echo chamber_ and all the people were standing on no-man’s-land for peaceful coexistence. SATISH VERMA