Taking our clocks back by a year, I remember the 8th Feb as just another ordinary day, smuggling and crossing over the thin line between the two dates, eight and nine. Too calm to hold the secrets of execution, very much strong to maintain the silence, leading to the gallows and still briefing us about nothing.
Like the faithfulness of a man, it (time) too fell prey to an anxious silence, a deserted belief, destined to the beautiful morning that faked a life like an icicle meeting up the bright rays descending from the sun on an unexpected harsh winter morning.
We all are destined to death, for its beauty and in hope of paradise we keep briefing ourselves about good and bad. But who knows how, where and in what situation we going to leave. Indubitably, no men stay immortal, though remembrance makes one so.
9th of February, as in today, would have never meditated enough to be remembered for an age to come, generations to move on but the tragedy made it believe the smuggling agony by the seconds that passed by. Over the will of Almighty no one’s supremacy does rule. This to him was known only difference is we would/could have never believed the cause to have been so.
“To ‘HIM’ we have to return,
Today or tomorrow, it will be our turn.”