Our Redemption Will Come

Forgive me if I ask how long before we converge again around the bonfire in the wee hours to douse this chilly dust-laden winds of the season. It was a misery, but it should happen again. That subtle terror of ancient times has reincarnated somewhere around the arid region, within the Sahara dynasty. His emergence was terrifying through and through. People hungered and bit their fists. People cried. People cursed. People died. This was a season alike, and redemption must come. However, we do not know, but certainly, we must hide our faces from rancor in safe bosom. Our haven bloated and puffed, and people wailed. There were blockades canyoned into waylaid ambushes. Where shall we go in the elevens with the pitfalls and the missiles? We have no place to run, and even if we had, we cannot go. Fright sapped marrows, and our stance daunted. We can only fall to the ground and shut our eyes to fate. So, we scuffled into ourselves, hymned and comfort came from the fluttering in the breeze. Life pallets and blank pallets strayed all along. We had carnages, and we fought the hovering vultures. Eminent miseries overwhelmed our doggedness, so we fled. Of truth, something happened, and redemption must come. Our faiths are manned, but untold hysteria looms. We shall sit our cheeks between our thighs until one good deed happen to our world. Convulsion must come, but good will prevail. Until then, I will have one more pint of darkrum to keep alive.