Poetry

The Lady of the Greens

I am as now, and I bear in mind,

I was when the instance very teen,

It was a new rest too for me,

And new was the intact scene.

 

I have to discern all odds and evens,

Of the rest where I was kept,

Then started learning new souls,

And found a lady in the heft.

 

But she was not as erstwhile ones,

Nor she was with the rest,

She used to breathe in a domed home,

Whose crown was a domicile of few swallow’s nest.

 

Her wrinkles said aloud her age-old prettiness,

And her conformist legacy was made clear,

When I saw her lettering poetries with feathers,

Dished in the ink in the moon drear.

 

I reckoned her as a non-radical lady,

And she remained languished devoid of care,

But soon I decimated my reckoned effects,

When I saw her in snowed cardigan with her hare.

 

She was too peculiar, too strange to know,

When I was to outdo from her place,

I memorize each point she faced the east,

And she used to look intently each passing face.

 

Her rest, O rest, as I know,

And as long as I remember,

And as heard by a not many too then,

Was much more than a hectare.

 

All about and about from her home,

All olive and olive were speckled just,

She had few pets and oodles of leaves,

That seemed as her eventual lust.

 

In haze, she used to bear a black shawl,

But I never saw her anguished in rains,

Even if it caused her chores to pause,

And I did not know even now for those gains.

 

I enquired and enquired then for only her,

But no one rejoined what I asked!

Then prospect fully, I asked her then,

And she was the only left and flaked!

 

She told me all her hurt and woes,

She told me how she would dry,

The next segment of her sorrowing life,

And I never saw her bright and breezy but then in a cry.

 

She told, the end day, she had compelled,

Her mate, the steward of her smiles,

To reside whole life as one but the day,

Scorched her smiles giving wailing’s wiles.

 

The impaired life and the poetries of soreness,

Then I knew, the root of such,

May the patrimony would have survived,

I cried for flagging the lady’s pains much.

 

She but ventured to live in the unmoving years,

That for her battered all her stunning past,

But she told that she never beget,

Thinking self routed from the episode last.

 

Her demise ushered again my rhymes,

To be in print for, her striking ceased,

And it was she and only her valor,

That persuaded me to carve what I had leased.

 

                                                                         ~ Ankit Singh

                                                                               Haldia, India

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