by akshay mahajan on 14:56
The sky grumbles and spurts rings of light like someone's ready for a fight.
In the quarters of the asokha trees lies a gate to the potters wheel it turns .. With shape and balance .. Molded to perfection by the projection of the potters hand.
Why I write this I don't know , but If I knew .. I wouldn't go.
For this is not a writer's word but the theater of the absurd.