01022021 - 32/365 Sun moved towards the north The pristine empty blue Indian skies Filled with Kites aspiring to fly high But Alas! The skies got clogged soon, with millions of hunters and the hunted Many hunted, drifted off without any direction, Without any sense of rhyme or rhythm. Until the minions of the masters Catch them and keep as their trophies. Why this, Almighty! Give the hunted some new strings Strings of hope! 01022021 - 32/365 Sun moved towards the north The pristine empty blue Indian skies Filled with Kites aspiring to fly high But Alas!