Plasma Screen

It was an absent answer. Terror was one abyss in unhindered waking of eternity in being. The passions rise between downpour of black rings on the terraces, was nonstop a parade of excuses and pretentions, no body was taking the responsibility of the war lost, and we nod in unison. Hunger drives the wedge. This is a city of moonless sky where the headcount never stops. Warriors sit down under the volts opening red eyes, the trade gets a bad name, rubbers win the coin. Yellow metal gleams around arms, a wound becomes a talisman, you start collecting the awards from severed hands. Satish Verma