The Eagle and Dove may think of love

Dale Diary Spring is yet to sanctify the barks ravished by harsh winter. Warmth is still in infancy to let the buds bloom. Fragrance has not yet corked out its aroma to mesmerize the valley suffering from unknown disease, but the Bulbul that was invited by desert birds has arrived with a new ballad on its lips written by the Court poets for inconsequential means, composed by ‘silvery musicians’ amid ‘yes-men’ of political pundits in their cozy glass houses situated at the bank of murky river that persuade their lust…

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