Truth has to win finally


Long-awaited death
waiting on the top of the green hill
The crest which is unrealistically silted up!

yet, the chat will goes on through the triplet notations
and the drops will drip in the restless motion
until the truth wont manifest from the withered garden.

In the garden where poppies used to grow through the whim of tropical wind
hence hadn’t been flown to the Afghanistan or Arabs-tan in this span of life time
Rather had to remain as a vagrant of music freak
while all the melodies and cadences fell muffled
as they blatant my alter-self stumbled

therefore the death will bring me to the top of the hill
where the one never encountered with the justice
rather beloved within the sensor-ed world of Peter Paul Reuben
and the man who was more fond of Gibran than Rumi,
Along with Laozi and Gautama who’s hymn like words dragged him in the alley of mystery

Perhaps, who will have adorned by prophet like aliens one day
or with a kind, who is the true king of his own realm
No doubt left about that
Behold, at the newish uncontaminated sky
And the truth has to win finally




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