Never have I seen such ecstasy at street lights as the everlasting gloom that posits hidden cries. Bags of misery that carry roti for some is far away from finding a bullion in a muddy riverine. The story from east to west, from partition to separation, unscrupulously glorifies the blind monologues for the Divine. A new past turns its pages ahead to erase the future of the millions who died in the humanitarian famine.
Roads crammed with motors and bikes kill the history of those aiding to impinge at line A, though a few left with a bit take the heart in the stomach shading it into new white. Not just the gloom of solar lights kill young hopes, but also the victim of old dilemmas murder few young souls, not this time with a knife my friend, but with edge of a fierce no manly shot rubbing the gist of their manhood for calming false harm. Yes, it will be easier for baggy boys to find there aspirations in white bags throughout the day, but its the most heinous to see street lights at night with no manly manhood.
This history or present or future is an unconventional cycle of paranoma that seems to find no end, but the bogus files in bureaucratic chambers can find the way to the end.