Mohit Prabhakar: 1 book

ye wind of blood doth reek soil with its tenured stains a state canst never be more bleak a land whither hope refrains how my lips tremble when I recite hence ye days be dark nay bright and them whom address ye sorrow with tears that they didst borrow from ye dead who didst impale squall and exclaim with ail thither hath been a tale of more woe that of Juliet and NOT her Romeo