Ghanashyam Bista’s corona sorrow

Ghanashyam walked cautiously, carefully, so as to not step onto the wet dew-soaked grass.

The thin tip of the fir tree pointed towards the sky like an accusing finger. The hills stood strong behind the hazy clouds, like a distant dream. As the golden rays of sunlight penetrated into the calm morning mist, a soft orange glow floated above the dewy grass. The birds chirped and the air was filled with the smell of morning. Dewdrops trembled on the blue steel gates as Ghanashyam Bista, pushing them, sailed into Naxal Park.