Reading Time: < 1 minute
In an innovative sonnet* form, Lopamudra unveils the agony of a girl, her loss of innocence.
The little girl slices through the deep blue blush; the rain tears the clouds asunder
Beneath the flickering street light, her thin frame bursts in a hungry deluge.
Moored in the murky edges of the city, where the night traffic diminishes,
In the rain waters she unbuckles, finds her refuge.
Strands of hair misplaced, she had sold framed photos of goddesses
Her bony body swimming through the unending vortex of urban vehicles.
The traffic honked, washed ashore the practiced voices of denial,
A middle-aged woman stopped the car, called her inside in unknown syllables.
Inside the damp walls of the unknown ‘home’, voices, flesh and bones
Crisscross, sex-starved beings haunt and whistle, rippling through hungry moans.
Rummaging through her, ghost voices swim, fall with a dull thud.
Outside, near the filthy gutter, her little teeth gnash the stale breads.
Swirling in the night rain, voices of her washed out childhood, her lost village
Ebb and flow, the rose bud of her being torn up in shreds.
Note: Inspired by a wonderful innovative verse form, the Roseate Sonnet, initiated by Dr. A.V. Koshy
Pix from Net
