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.

Colours of illusion

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I watched her painting herself
With worldly colours of illusion
She looked at her reflection
Took a clear view of her face
Where should she paint red?
Where should she paint brown?
She looked very confused
She picked up the brush
Dashed it on her eyes
Brown would conceal, She thought,
The little twinkle in her eyes
Was she hiding her happiness?
Or was she concealing her fears?
She then took a blusher
Painted her cheeks pink
Covering the blush she had earlier
When her heart leaped a bit
She took up the lipstick
As she felt the lingering of a kiss
She hurriedly moved her head
Coloured her lips with brown
She looked relaxed
‘I have concealed’ She must have thought
‘My emotions with these shades’
She took a look at herself again
The change in herself
Was it worth the concealment?
The question lingered in her heart
But she lived happily in her own
Colours of illusion.


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Dinita Rai
J P Sharma Road