By T. Pratiksha Reddy
Under the misty moonlight
And above the dying field
As the roses began to wither
Forming dust for the next yield
A night bird sang in mellow
Far away from the lonely land
Comforting the pain- stricken
Like offering a welcoming hand.
The wind gave its cheerful try,
As she blew around the gloom
Wiping away the drying tears
Again, to see them bloom.
The desolate gazed at the sky
Admiring the moon, the starry lights
Recollecting moments of lost hope
And woeful memories of magical nights.
As the dark soothed the depressed
Like a warm blanket on a frizzy evening
Their minds vowed to their hearts
Of a bright and new beginning.
Yet, every night of grief
When hope began to die
Among the withering field of roses
The broken, yet again, sighed.
For it was their haven of solace
The smell of dew drops in the air
For the roses reminded them of self
As the fireflies twinkled ever so rare.
A shelter for their insecurities
The only figment of their own
Here lied their centuries old secrets
Of how peaceful it was to be alone.
By T. Pratiksha Reddy
Comments