The Queen

The walls sing to her a symphony dry

Of life that flutters by her closed window pane

And some dim lit lamps blatantly glorify

The ageless wait for her lover in a luxurious den

She has a story to tell

The one of big halls but closed doors

Of colours and hues

And grandeur but also blues

A story of a girl full of life

But who lost herself in some vain strife

For name maybe that of a queen

But reality is grave and often unseen

Her face is now shadowed by a lull

But tearing her apart is a raging storm

What had she got in name of fortune’s call

A caged bird she was to be part of some historic form.

-Vaisakhi Mishra