Sunday, June 27, 2010


She treads,slowly
through the people,
remnding of slow flowing streams
to look at her, is to look at peace
of joy she gleams.

Draped in the hues of love and care
and a lot of glistening jewels,
she looks like a gem or perhaps a new moon.
And her voice
Ah to listen to a nightangel croon.

She is what poetries are made of.
Her eyes are sonnets
drawn into a canvass,serene
she dreams of a place, where the first rains,
have kissed the leaves, green.

The dream makes her wistful and sad.
If she could be there in the greens
among the rains,
a drop fills her eyes as she reminiscnece
of the unseen
..She grows in pain.


She runs and scampers
to a place under the shade
near the footpath beneath the tree
to protect her from the chilling eyes
of night,to let her sleep free

She wears something
the colour of ash
and her face is devoid of feelings, empty
perhaps like her stomach,
with hunger aplenty.

and as the full moon sighs over her
she closes her eyes
she must be dreaming
of a plate filled of rice
..As she smiles.

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