Sunday, August 17, 2014

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

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