“What did the prophecy say?” She whispered, her eyes wide and disbelief coursed through her veins. Raghavendra’s hand trembled where it rested against the table, his knuckles pale. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, the silence of the room pressing down on him like a weight. He exhaled sharply, as though the words themselves scorched his throat.
“The Rajguru… I remember the way his face changed when he finished the reading. He went pale, his fingers shook as he touched the parchments. The Rajguru studied his chart again and when he spoke, his words cut us like steel."
For the Flame to Burn, It Needs a Spark These words—these poems, musings, echoes of soul—they are pieces of me, offered to the void. If they’ve ever stirred something in you, made silence feel understood or chaos feel poetic… Then let your support be the wind beneath this fire. A small gesture. A mighty impact. Because art survives on love—and the occasional coffee. ☕✨
Write a comment ...