The leveller looms large, untamed as yet.
But God strides forth undeterred, untouched and unmoved
But is it fate that he should be levelled unsung?

The clouds too cry aloud
And rumble their fears
They shoot last minute photographs of their Lord
Then they cry as rain
That God may not walk this earth no more
And then they simply hang, shrouds of grey, black and white

The moon does not create the customary umbrae and penumbrae
Because of its phobia of what many hype to be the ‘Beginning of the End’.

The sun ran away a long time back
Refusing to cast its rays, fearing that it may be the last it ever cast.

The stars twinkle. Not from the dust.
But from the tears streaming down their cheeks.

The mountains of might lean on each others shoulders to cry
The trees sway wildly in disapproval.

God strides on
Collar turned high;
Hands pocketed;
To protect from the biting of the cold bone chilling howling wind.

Then out of the blue, the hills join in chorus and add amplitude to God’s whistles.
Then the whistles are echoed by lupine howls
They seemed to say, “We are with you all the way”

But the pandemonium only serves to incite the prowling leveller,
Drawing him closer!