In a vast canvas, human mind could never fully conceive,
life is unfolded as a moving picture, a chain of events-
intricately webbed, beyond the capacities of calculation
of even the most sophisticated super computer,
when the story proceeds act after act, note without fail,
a fog, descends from nowhere,  one even fails to notice its role,
it cleans  up the canvas, for the movement  forward,
without any order, dissolves part of the canvas in to the background,
don't expect fire works, thunder or lightening always
the fog that makes the marked parts disappear, keeps its mystery in tact,
there appears a wound somewhere, blood spurt,
then without much tending the mouth of the wound closes,
perhaps a faint scar will be left, but no one will notice,
life and death close each other's mouth in a conspiracy of silence.