The window side seemed to call,
The witness didn’t appear to be bleak,
A used up life, a shameful fall
And the elements of all that’s sick;
Made me abhor this life all the more.
The Burning Ghats, the innocent shriek
And the slow rumbling of ashes,
The nerves were wrecked with grief at its peak,
The drops of pearl didn’t soothe the gashes,
Neither cleansed my soul of the sore.
The marshes drenched in wet attire,
The forests lively, clean and fresh,
The soul that was assaulted in fire
By cannibals whom morality couldn’t enmesh,
Can the rain forgive them like a bore?