The doomed prophecy
Red blood trickles down my eyes
In the very thought of doomsday,
We will all die, erasing all the lies.
Here we are in this earth, counting our last sins,
Counting the last miseries, last hopes, last moments
Last lives to live with, for whom the soul laments (afterwards).
And when you go, let your breath rest
Let it take a sigh of relief, the last sigh of relief
For the breath was your best friend, it has to live.
Your breath will freeze, turning into hailstones,
Your pains will have its fatal clones,
Your body will burn in them and you all will turn into stones.
My words are not just mere words,
They are like swords, sharp, bloody swords,
Now cry and get ready to suffer in herds.
© Copyright 2017 Debojyoti. All rights reserved.
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