The Son of the Winds

The Son of the Winds

Lanka is burning my lord
It burns – the flames maliciously licking the walls
Each lick a caress – devouring impurity, leaving a carcass so pure
White, pristine; even through the black charcoal

The souls are freed my lord
The sweet sweet suffering
Oh how it hurts, they scream
They scream loud my lord, willing the pain to stop

Even as the souls fly free
Looking into the blue
Mocking the crimson below
Yellow against black, rays against ash

At last the sins are wiped out
Yes my lord, you won by blood
But what of the sinned ashes?
Will Ganga’s sharp fangs come to meet them?

The golden walls are no more, my lord
It’s one now, with mud and water
Lanka is burning, the dark smoke rises
As I sit on the rock, with my tail in the sea


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