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Nisha S.

Shedding old garments, exploring

avenues unknown, taking

thorny, barely marked trails, making

most of the exiguous collection of lilting

words in captivity - tenants

who stay unwilling; what if

they decide to move out too,

like everyone does, move out

from my decrepit shack; an unforeseen rout

after which they seek fresh pastures anew?

What if they grudge the little tiff

that soured the sweet bond

that was held sacred once,

but which now lies profane?

All those years that passed me by, I toiled in vain

I have nothing to show for it, save the barren stretch of desert sands

where green refuses to set home; no sprouts push weary heads from underground.

But the sky is overcast, dark clouds herald monsoon,

they do, the pall of gloom is but transient.

Black churning clouds will weep saltless tears

that will seep deep, and give impetus

to all that green that lies somnolent.

Lush rainforest will displace wasteland; my broken lute will play sweet tunes too, soon, very soon.

This copy is posted as it was received. It has not been edited by TLM

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