Waiting…

How strange an instance is that of a man, whose bones have not yet aged more than a generation, who spends his time on this earthly podium, like his life’s thread will stay intact forevermore. While these mountains, these hills, who have yet not seen the face of death for beyond a hundred and thousand years, stand there how so quietly. And when my unworthy sight touches their immortal bodies, I feel as if in waiting of some existence their hearts stand, and from it’s fear and sovereignty, all is silent, how so obediently. And when the clamour of winds and clouds, oceans and rivers, trees and flowers touches my straining eardrum, I feel as if their existence longs to run away, far away from something, something that has illumed their hearts by the same fear, authority and sovereignty…


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