There was a faint voice of idolatry across the artery bulkhead, among the sunlight. I come from the bringing, clad in fresh and holy blood, take off the dark to welcome the light. All look full of lies, heavy hearted to crawl between wild fingers
In a dim light, I ponder the meaning of life stranded on the mountain of mortality has been put in the heart. History of thirst, I will not be able to turn around because the soul has been bought from the softness of the Divine Essence.
No baby is born without bloodstained, so too did the rising spirit between the joints of the potholes. I'll reveal the transverse branches. No baby is born without bloodstained so is the soul's rebellious spirit to escape from the grip of my elbow ruthlessly from the grasp of the lecherous human. no baby is born without bloodstained, release the sharp arc into, to destroy the mortality of oneself from the shackles of the souls of the lowly souls in a land of fire gatherers. No baby is born without bloodstained, no swords without scopes.
There are no martyrs without the sound of Takbir in the corners of the tortured screams of the masses.
YOU ARE READING
The Blood of Holy Spring
PoetryThe Blood of Holy Spring is a book that is written by an Indonesian (actually a Pakistani🇵🇰) who always stands with Kashmir. He writes this book as his dedication to support Kashmir and the people of Kashmir to fight for their freedom. Kashmir is...
