A White pigeon-A Red Rose

Civilization is trodding new paths
History is being made in burkers
Metal fliers are spreading shadows
You have to bow and pay trabutes
To the sword hanging on your head.

A lone pigean in a Desert storm,
Blloody lotuses filling the oasis,
The visibie world is a batlle field.
If the run stops in thick forests
Sand dunes,mountain ranges,mid oceans,
Underground,masking the faces,
Changing the appearences,
Losing the where abouts,life gets caught in the river of fire.

He stands with the grip of the god of death,
The greed of power is the crown on his head.
Feet of steel, chains of iron, cages of thorns,
Human freedom is a land mine.
Are we only the beaes of palan quin?
Two sentences of our own in history,
A flag of our own is an unrealized
dream… A fiction…A tumult.

I wish to kiss the bloodless floor.
When shall we get our land(kingdom),
The war hasn’t yet stopped.
Neither the weapon has been neutralized.
Some where in the world, a minute ago even,
A buiieat might have talked to the heart.

A red rose being turned into afiower bouqnet must be smiling.
Without hearing even a far cry,
This world lives and acts
At the close of a century

A grand down on the brink of death after the four corners turning red.
A littie space is needed for the white pigeon to perch and for the white lotus to bloom.
It may be any path tha you walks on.
At the very end,
You remain a handful of clay and an extinguished
Camphor lamp.