Inverted

A tribal instinct stops the nemesis : Spraying the blood-soaked, small foot prints on my chest; unlocking, I accept myself. Why contained anger of awesome ache over the periphery ? Through the atrophied, black limbs - an elite infusion of trespassing knowledge ? The green adolescence was waiting in chains. The hoarseness as from a cyanosed throat after the sips of hemlock, the brave ascending of a gaint stroke on the cheeks of death ; the dust will sing a farewell to a river of tears ! End was not me on the chainsaw a chamomile will wipe the blemishes of the Grail. SATISH VERMA