My being is utterly so real as the swears, spitting and dandruffs.The poplar trees are crucified in the monotonous desert. I see him forward far away from my desire. I see him shrouding a branched shadow. The sin of sins grows of debauchery behind him, in this realm of dark. O, the multicolored sins, the desire to live,to decorate the purified desert. He, the creator, is deemed to die with the poplar trees, for inventions,for staring straight at the sun, for allowing the sin to be itself.He is the god of unceasing fire, Prometheus.
YOU ARE READING
The monsoon literature
PoésieOur self is always so distant a leap from the surroundings. Literature is the medium of the minority to revolt, to state existence.
