The bouquet in the basket
were no longer in colours of reds and yellows and greens
The shades have faded
And the eyes around were all jaded
In none ,did it seem to sink in
For she was not a flower in full bloom yet.
Time and her slaves,the seconds and the minutes
With the moments of misfortune
Apparently seemed like having the last laugh
When a weeping ,pale wind kissed her forehead
And the smithereens of her cycle cried out with a creak..
Her open hands said her life line was a lie.
What was it like.?
The string of a guitar ,
severed in the midst of a mellifluous rendering?
Or a young ravine ,
withering away before hugging the motherly blue.
Lips kept murmering a prayer or two
With the fists folded into a seeking hollow,
Of those eyes that kept on scouring for some vital signs.
They all raised a question to the One above
"why so cruel.?
why so wrong.??"
Helpless and hopeless were they
the mortals, the puppets of the Mighty.
But, so did speak the spokes of her toppled cycle
"We’re a moment in time
In the cycle of life
We’re just a moment in time
In the cycle of life"...
hArI..:-)
