The Man of the Grave Yard

Oh! There comes the silent storm of fire,

Though smokeless but rich in affluent heat.

Some term it is extraordinary

And others narrate as a surprising event,

May be celestial.

A man on the footpath fighting for life

And crying in pain of fatal burns

Is forced to tolerate it-

As a sudden start of devastation,

The aristocrats ignore these cries,

Rarely lend their holy hands with passion

To wipe these oozing wounds;

Crushed under a bruished aristocracy.

Who then can be the

God’s incarnation?

To administer a ray of hope towards  self-protection

And waive a cooled breeze.

Might be that there exists no other go,

Let rule the fire storm and

Gather heaps of ruins of burnt humans.

No one knows if some day some one around

May sing the bravery of the man of the Graveyard.

With a lighted candle in hand

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