The Urborn

Let it be, a dawn prayer, dripping with fantasy intercepting the strip-search of soul tempting a mad psyche. The sleeping volcano was going to celebrate, put the sign on. Perfectly shineless hands will raise the banner to donate kidneys, eyes and heart to the broken star,who on the name of book was sending the empty cadaver on ivory car, a saviour from carnage, to mimic a divine touch. Why are they playing with flames of summer ? Poor minutes were sinned, the centuries will suffer now. On the green leaves a nightingale lies bleeding ! SATISH VERMA