A wind blows through behind the asokha trees and aged they swoop and they groan .Swaying like giant pendulums with physics as there master scurry in the green of the brown searching for safe ground.
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.

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