The iron is hanging on the air,
In a to and fro motion like magic.
People are shocked to see such mystery
That blackout hearts and mentality,
Such display is golden egg
As the iron swing in a peacock motive.
The eyes are consumed with astonishment
In the hot sun that gives amazement.
What can the hands do but clap
For this hypnosis drives it uphill.
If this is confidential in mysteries,
If magic is mind bending in mysteries,
If this dance is head turning in degrees,
If the tears are joy melting in felonies,
What can a baby do but stare
Deep into the auras of its calling.
The movie is more than dead heroes,
Inspite of its fictional decoration,
We are slave to its tragedy,
So comical without the outskirt of boredom.
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