The Window

A wooden cottage on that hill,
Housed a blurry window framed into a soft sling,
Laying there were the beds of flowers,
Covering the entire passage beyond power.
I peeped through the blur
As I watered the seedlings each day,
Nothing more than a black image could my eyes catch.
The figure glanced at me now and then,
Hiding its stance behind those curtain trails.
Days went by and so did the years,
Never did that shadow show up for real.
Every diurnal was same, not different from many gone by,
The curiosity in my breast surpassed all measures,
The grey figure seemed feeble and wrecked more than ever.
That was when I got closer to that hazy window frame;
To inquire the matter,
And
The slight left me shattered!

Chains and bondages clung to that pretty soul,
I could have come to her rescue some days ago.
Her feet were broken, senses all lost,
What a miserable state it was.

The fragrant roses stood still,
The circumstances were left at ill,
Orchards there though far and wide,
Did no healing,
As neither she could smell the roses, nor could feel the thorns!

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