The smell of death – they said that people set the cemetery grounds on ablaze the day before to kill the rats. The indescribable putrid stench was terrifying. I tread carefully on the earth, watching out for any tail, whiskers or skeletal remains, wary of the possible dead rats that I could possibly be offending – but nope, somebody must have somehow cleared them because I did not see a single trace of a ‘rat’. We made way to the train station, and I insisted
I feel guilty sometimes – whether we as a society is doing the ‘right’ thing for our future. Whether we are making the world a better place for the next generation. Inspired by White Lion’s ‘When the Children Cry’, i wonder out loud if we can really truly touch our hearts and say that we have tried our best.
Wishin' and hopin' and thinkin' and prayin'
Plannin' and dreamin' each night of his charms
That won't get you into his arms