Happiness doesn't grow on trees.
It is found among people.
Amongst laughter and humour.A song for every hour, every moment in a day.
The song that fills the room, a song that blows with the wind, runs with the tiny feet of innocence.
Music that flows freely in our minds , its beauty nourished by our smile ,by our tears.

The time of Death

The darkness of the day; it was ten in the morning. The black endless collection of dead bodies and dead souls filled the central park. The ashes had not yet settled on the ground. There lay an image of utter destruction. The ground reeked a diabolic stench. No trace was left of the dewy grass, each blade had died silently as its sap bled out and burnt at the hands of an unknown enemy.


My tears it could not absorb. My fathomless pain it could not comprehend. I stared at my hands for a very long time.The real world for the moment was eluding me. I bent on the ground, the blueness of the sky, its stark nakedness looked down on me. I wished the sky was a foggy miasma so that death would seem more real and closer. The silence of what was around me peered at me from a corner. The earth, the soil, the birds, the wind all had hid themselves in that corner in fear of my lamentation..
I was conscious of my unconsciousness. I knew they were gone, lost forever.
I placed both my hands on the sacrilegious ground, the ground of the dead. Wading through the burnt flesh searching for my four friends.