Till the end story, hope was not visible to others.
Lie, neutral truth and roadside innocence died under the sun.
End in view was shifting from error to error.
Statements squeezed between departures.
Steaming cup of patience dazzled the penniless.
I was sick of hypocrisy.
At the end of my forest,
dawn of my child was peeling a rainbow.
Pedlars of worn out boats were standing at the shores.
Two little feet were crossing the sea.
