Reasoning

There was a portrait under the landscape. Whispering of clouds, writhing body and tense folds. The sorrows hold out a veiled threat. Mortality itself will finish the epic abstraction? I am not sure, and then the fog rises. Afraid of flames - a man was burning alive in inferno, the red blooms of serial blasts. A hairy bigfoot runs through the passions. The fractured faith scatters wild words like childhood screams. The very living was night of kills a freedom in movement of time. SATISH VERMA