One tremulous voice was approaching to my brimming ear.
It wasn't the voice of the Volcano or the last shade, Not the voice of the mountain stream.
My ear wanted to abscond.
That boom forced it to be dislocated.
But my mind recognised the great human cry.
Dirty desires of the millions were unsheathed.
Only my austere eyes could catch the final sight of the last shade.
The bucolic station was finding its revolving fate. Every attempt was the spear of the white tongue. But the primitive station was ostracized.
The sword of revolt hit on the throat of humanity. Only the Reeds on the field were shivering.
Was it my final sight or not?
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