The clouds are forming again... Little translucent clusters dashing into each other... Some hitting with fury destroying the other, some losing themselves in the other's existence. "An epitome of love and the culture of war, together", smiles the senile Sky, watching with his tired eyes.
The little droplets now descend one following the other... in masses, falling into the greedy mouth of the earth, that swallows one drop after the other, leaving no trace behind. The only evidence of the fallen droplets is the wet clod of mud. The same clod of mud, that remained unmoved, when the winds chased the sand to the far ends of the dessert... the same clod of mud that hid beneath sheets of lose sand when travellers passed by... the same clod of mud that was deader than the dead dessert. The clod of mud, whose one end now quivers, slightly, tentatively. A slow, short breath blurts out in a plosive, blowing some sand away. A long limb moves, curls-up uncertainly, as the neck cranes to hide within the folds of sand. The heavy curtains on the eyes finally rise, slowly, as life is blown into it. The Clod of mud rises to life.
Hey everybody... how are you all. Sorry for the long hiatus and I am glad to be back. Glad to be alive. :-)
Cheers!
Winged Fantasy
