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Working hard is an art
Working hard is a duty
The call of duty that's Updated every day
It's obvious
If we want to eat the fruits of the garden of God
We've to work hard cause
Good things don't come from comfort zones
It's just like Food wars
passion and hard work
But no
Not at all should we be in speed
The kind of Need for speed with hot pursuit
The importance is the destination
How far you go NOT how fast you go
Surely the evil is there
You will believe you are in
Resident Evil mission
But trust me ; look not for monsters
Look for human monsters not to ****
but avoid and warn against
In my long run of life
I had to travel deserts i said to myself
O my God !! Desert Storm and they are all here               Bradely - my spirit
                        Foley/ Sheerman - my soul
                        Conors - my body
                        Jones - my hard work
Even when i had crossed the desert ,
battles were not over , are we
in Battlefield till the end
And somebody told me better were in
Infinity war so far as we breathing
No End game
Life  without Hard work
                        Motivation and
                        God's Courage
Is far more frightening than:
Thanos with the 6 Infinite stones ,or
Galactus at the peak of his Strength and Might.

                        Life is real
                        Everyday is now and gone
                        So let's act now and not
So this very amazing and speaking to video games and film fans , if you such a person make him read it it's more in his language as yours
mamta madhavan Jan 2021

Swirls of golden smoke rose slowly from my blazing coffee ***. The dusty car at a distance slithered and crawled up the winding road. Sitting in the shack I watched the sand snaking its way up, keeping pace with the car and pelting it with sand particles as if it held a grudge against the driver. I had planned to go dune bashing but for the ominous tone of the desert.


The next day morning remnants of what the desert spat out, the sand particles consume me. I am cloaked with gloves of voluminous dust. I take another sip of coffee. The pungent aroma of the milieu and coffee leaves me breathless. The greens are choked and there is sand art on pavements outside.


I try to remove the sand on my hair as I wipe the aurulent sheen on the window pane.  A bunch of men wipes the dust from the tables and chairs in the opposite shack. An old dusty car crawls to a halt and parks, blaring the music of Led Zepplin.

— The End —