It is the music behind the parting doves,
decorated with cries and screams.
within the pauses ,including the hugs of love,
like singing the magic of spring kissing the autumn leaves.
It is in the heights to kiss,
and within the depth to get.
there it includes room to success,
followed by failures on the way to be met.
No gurantee ,in the next moment someone can decieve,
and also there are million moments when endless love and affection you recieve.
Sometimes you will have a hand to hold you,
and sometime you will lend your hand to hold someone too.
There is no margins to escape the vicious schemes ,
like no traveller could prevent to quench thirst in the mansoon scene.
It is like the painting hung on the walls,
where the painter drew his dreams.
Which has the tall standing mountains,
but between two successive peaks always a depth attains.
The magic he knew is life is of extreames.
And he paints a burning sun ,
shining bright crimson red,
and his picture can be seen.
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