The path towards that mountain is harsh,the wishpers said..
Then I would definitely walk that path,the young child said,childishly,
Not noticing the glares of eyes around..
But who knew,the harshness was not just the world turning back..
But it is also you turning back and never once turning around..
Now,I can say,it is harsh..
The wind of your little world is very cold,even in burning summer..
It makes me wish to light up the pyre of fire and burn myself as whole..
It makes me wish to sink into the roaring ocean and never be found again .
It makes me wish to give you the stones on the mountain and run,
Waiting for the stones to be rained down..
It's so harsh..
