Waves of blood,
splash ashore,
crash and smash,
they paint this lore;

Mangled limbs,
thrash about,
tangled lips,
still scream and shout;

It’s love who collects,
the hearts that survive,
and feeds them to those,
those poets of lies;

While ones with no mouths,
no courage to speak,
drown in the abyss,
of cold silent shrieks;

Its their blood that flows,
their bodies that break,
their screams that create,
the waves in this lake.

By: Viraj Belgaonkar