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An evocative poem by Atrayee for Different Truths.
With the elan of a warrior
At the door ajar.
Eyeing the sky deep blue
Scribbling my pangs on its hue
Do they try to quench my pain?
At an abode that far.
My tears would travel perhaps,
Through the woods of my ruin
And the springs of my gain
Leaving their smell amidst all that went vain.
From the barren ampules of my desires
Don’t know how it reaps the hope to repair
Caressing the fallen eyelashes
I do ponder on my tears
Under the smog of my woes
How can they smell like a triumph?
It always sews a mystic mettle
To get up and strive again
To clutch back the sinking faith
And walk again, on the path destiny had laid.
Like the conviction of a mother,
That happiness exists and is yet to gather.
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