A threadbare sigh relentlessly lisps while he begs with twilight for inner calm; Dear life...he is just a young man, wobbly feet wanting to run away from unknown ground which reeks of territorial conquest, of violence inhumane as spitting bang of bullets explodes: Just like one nameless label of life's bloody route , he turns into a fetal shape on the road leading to nowhere; not even hell-- till grunts of combat lamentations echo upon the breeze; crushed grains hurling a lone figure half alive, half lifeless with rosary beads on his neck... amidst purgatory of eve.
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