Hope

Sreela Srinivasan
Sep 3, 2018 · 1 min read
“person holding red and black butterfly” by Elijah O'Donell on Unsplash

The sky bore dark patches of big black clouds. Tiny cracks in the monotonous emulsion up above spilled out heavenly light. As the alley stretched ahead, far and unending, the mind lingered on the thoughts of springs past. The downpour that followed came quick and hard. Running for cover, a haggard piece of tarpaulin, served the purpose. A plethora of emotions poured down, both from the earth and from the Kohl laden eyes.
The rain had a rhythm to it, one which would have blended in with the place, had it been before the catastrophe struck. Dilapidated buildings stood, rather weak, with signboards hanging haphazardly. Not a patch of green in sight; the place, once a flourishing market, bowed its head down in despair.
The “precedence” of human greed had taken down what was once the heart and soul of a land which knew nothing but love. The gloom of it’s misery catapulting it’s doleful decline. The little frame shivered in the cold. Coal black eyes, forlorn but hopeful, stared into eternity.

For, if winter comes can spring be far behind?

Sreela Srinivasan

Written by

Woman by birth, engineer on paper and a writer at heart!

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