A ship brandishing on the hills,
In the voyage of brutal sand rills,
Verdure, a dream, cannot be seen,
Slumber, inevitable with masquerade keen.
Nay, the future, no one can presage,
Even the contraption is glanced through vantage.
The heart flatters over a peril,
Forsooth, it’s the chuckle of the devil.
A venture, the life always a fallen feather,
On the outrageous ground, roofed by the ether,
Throughout the day everyone make aware of burden,
But the best is, glaring upon the conventional curtain.
Mundane future, slaughters the pal,
Can see only the eyes crimson, of the gal.
The student under the books, crying for dreamt mills,
A ship brandishing on the hills.
-Osanda Janandith Thenuwara-