rashmi.sasi
Your dimpled smile,
Is the flame that warms me when I'm cold.
You're the beautiful dream,
That turns my grey, dead world to gold.
You're my eternity, my today, tomorrow and everyday.
The magical candle, that drives dark shadows away.
Everyone called her a failure. She had failed so many times at so many things that nobody thought her worthwhile anymore.
But somehow, I didn't think so. That woman has uncommon strength. To face so many failures and still keep trying. Anybody else would have given up a long time ago. She's definitely no weakling.
Throughout the trail, the accused man hadn't lifted his head once. The pounding of the gavel brought him back to reality. The trial was over. He looked around wildly - "Not life imprisonment, please, not life imprisonment". He heard the whispers around him and facts registered - death sentence.
He could have cried with relief. This was not punishment. He would soon be joining his son in the other world. His tiny innocent son who was killed for that thin thread of gold around his neck. The tiny thread that he had worked to hard to buy.
He sighed in satisfaction. He had blinded his son's murderer. And there was no gold in the other world.
It was a warm evening. The sky looked like a nasty crime scene. The sun had bled a brilliant red all over the the wild blue yonder, before disappearing into sea.
She was born in the spring, when butterflies danced,
a tiny pale thing.
When summer came, she had friends all around her,
the wind making them sing.
When the autumn wind blew, she woke up startled,
To find herself floating to the ground.
Then winter, covered her in his snowy cloak,
and whispered a lullaby,
Said,"Now rest, my dear, your day is done,
poor withered leaf, I bid sweet goodbye"
Children's stories are often embellished with many imaginative, and often untrue, details. These details encourage children to realize that they can, and should, imagine anything they want.
Her eyes were sunken, cheeks hollowed and skin leathery. She needed rest, badly. After all, she had never known the comfort of a roof above her head, shelter from the sun or three square meals a day. I wished I could help her.
There were lines of poetry scrawled on the faded pages of the weathered book. The beauty of those lines had not faded at all.