Bleak, bleak, wasteland,
you sorely miss the gardeners of your past.
Bleak, desolate island,
Spring shalt not come, spring shalt not come.
Scorch the plains, brothers.
And let us march though our feet are broken.
We always trudge on, don't we ?
With or without words
Take your toll and leave,
Thunderstorms pass.
We are the wind in the fractures.
1 comment:
No Nishant,
Spring always comes. That's why we trudge on.
And shattered windowpanes are always fixed.
-Sonia Subjonctif.! =P! [just remembered that. =)]
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