In  that merry-go-around , you touch the sky for a brief while,trying to reach the stars but your flying feet have touched the hem of the sky and returned empty-handed.

Luminous tube-lights  cris-cross with the geometrical figures of the wheel drowning the silhouettes of men in a hurry.

Everywhere there are people in the wheel of life, now going up,now coming down with a bit of the sky in their pockets.

Their blood swirls in their bodies, as if falling from a mountain’s top,and minds remain in suspended animation in between.


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