Loaves

When the street was becoming alive man had become a charged bull, goring the god to death. My father wept, took the corpse home, that was his child. In the wild fire, a tall eucalyptus had burned, turned black. What did you think, this year, spring would not come? I remained very sad those days. When the self was me, my image I was dying without death ; through the veils, I would not see. Was the pinnacle of your is, was becoming empty? Tell me when we would learn, the tiny truth of a primate? Or become snakes eating our own children? SATISH VERMA