The blanket of dust has turned out to be a cocoon to bury the tired soul. The warm days has an unusual music to the ear, a music which holds back a ripping pain of a deprived rain. There is  silence around us. The silence of a never ending wait. The leaves that float down to the burning earth has no news of hope. This land is a burial ground of time and dreams. All that got painted brown has lost itself to scorching venom of time. The cry to be washed green again is a weep unheard now. The birds that floated like a kite in the sky is no where to be seen, all that is heard is a mumble to be set free. The fish in the pond has started feeling the hunt, the hunt of a silent predator. The carefully infused colour of amusement is nothing but an invitation to be scooped from this pond of bewilderment to the shocking reality of hopelessness. The footsteps that crushed the dry leaves has no apologies to be said nor a comforting word to be spared. All that is left is a burning summer of not just a season but also of souls that never got dusted to life.