A Receding fire.

A faint fire in the distant,
Rising and falling with the harsh winds that blew
Now, rising with fierce countenance ; Now, falling with a fizzled rage.

Smoke rose,
And clouds of black posed
In the open, wild skies
Like the black in a child’s eyes.

The winds blew,
And in fits of rage the fire grew,
Brighter now more than ever.

Trees spoke,
Leaves shook,
And Something was to come.
They all knew it.

A silence was assumed
The winds, in a pause
The trees knew not the cause

Awkward silence.

Often the prelude to violence.

The smoke stood still,
Upon the skies,
Like dark clouds of rain,
Only but this time,
They were clouds of pain,
That rose from the fire of his Dead son.
-Anirudh Shankaran.

Photographed by – Aarthi Shankaran.

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