The ground was light, dark brownish-red and undisturbed by random moves by human feet. One more fresh morning came here for a session of Meditation, as practiced religiously by its ancestors. The environ was free of disturbance of every kind, especially those humans are capable of. A sheer bliss, if one tries to understand the patterns created by the fainter and darker shadows of a partially chopped tree, the stolidity of a time-wrinkled, sun-stroked, wind-chaffed wall with a border of mosses, which may collapse soon after this summer.
The old wooden window, though look outdated, seemed to have retained the depth of color, a reddish-brown, a deep wine red to a pale, golden ruddiness, the suppressed intensity in a woman’s eyes glowing in the splendor of an autumn evening sun, albeit, toned down rigorously by the time. I, like the fresh morning, stood arrested, because there was something indecipherable, devoid of any kind of emotion, clinging to my skin, then a part of the window opened subtly, could be in my imagination. I was not sure, but I stared at what was in front of my eyes for a while, which usually is defined as “Ruined and Neglected space” in our world, but I felt an echo of time which appealed to me. …
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