A poem should be soundless as the flight of birds...A poem should be equal to not true....A poem should not mean but be.


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Am I dead? I asked myself
As I watched my body being laid on the pyre
‘Wake up’ but my body would not listen
Oh! How I hate my body?
She wouldn’t listen to what I have to say
She laid down silently, quietly defying me
As I recall my past days
I remember her as a venerable lady
She did what she liked
When I told her it is not right
She would answer
“There is nothing wrong or right”
She moved in with lust of love
Craving it with a dream she had
A prince to come with red roses
Not knowing the thorns would prick
She weaved the colors of rainbow
Not knowing that happiness and tears
The composition of her dreams
She started to count the colors
Which was indeed infinite
Tired she looked as she found her dreams chained
With mystery and reality of life
where did her dreams lead her to?
I asked her as she lay on the pyre
I watched her peaceful countenance
As  fire took  possession of her
She was gone into the ashes
So was her dream I realized
Into the ashes she went.


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Dinita Rai
J P Sharma Road