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The romanticism of torn petals hidden in song books is precious for a girl. Blue Eve captures its essential enigma.

Pressed between pages that are read no more,

Brishti still has a torn petal hidden in the dusty songbook,

that found no takers for years.

Mallar never carried notes to put them to tune,

But wildflowers, scented with the fragrance of a wet soil.

For her.

They blended a thunder clap with the music of rains.

He often found them peeping through crevices,

As his feet took care not to trample them ever,

or delay.

Else they would close their eyes.

To Brishti they looked like fake notes,

Not even currency ones,

She had always aspired for.

Someday Mallar got lost,

As lightning struck.

His music played on.

The wildflowers still bloomed,

Though none set their eyes on them ever again.

Only the torn petal in Brishti’s book still kissed the dusty page.

©Saheli Mitra

Pix from Net.

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