Written by Kokila Gupta
The writers had long gone to dust
So have the readers’ eyes,
Vignettes of life on postcards pale;
of dark clouds, sun kissed skies.
Of saffron blooms in purple fields
Laughing rivulets spanning miles
Of fireflies dancing like a glimmer of hope,
And of trembling hands which write.
Of unsaid laments in inky hues
Suffused with scents of home
Unwritten words in flow of pen
Soul in handwritten notes.
Every hopeful word on it
Infused with a longing dream
Every pining phrase is but,
A moment in a paper frame.
