Every evening this voice fills up the neighbourhood. It streams through into the little cage on terrace with its windows shut. Meanwhile, evening light bathes the plam trees in winter’s soft glow. The traffic along the roads continues unabated. Men and women on their way home. 

It is hard not to feel melancholic, in company or alone. As though, the voice seeks an answer to an untold search, in those calls for prayer. Every evening. Answers which, often times, people pine for. 

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