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She, Herself

by B.R. Nagpal

She was herself,
Her metallic nerve was holding her
in bereavement
She was fortitude in her being forlorn,
not storm-tossed, vanquished.
She was sprightly, undismayed.

Like the purple that opens up its leaves,
Like the pink dome
that conceals within an internal brightness.
She was tapping her resources,
in her spring of bloom.
When she pulled out her silvery grey
out of her baggy black hair,
Her robustness withstood her ordeal.

The gentle breeze blew her watery nose
in summer
while sunshine played colours
with her replenished body.
She was graduating to sensible routine,
took up her implements
began crushing the spices.

Wrapped up in clumsiness, defiance,
coping up with her messy existence
She digested her cries, wounds
in her resilience.
Being careless, carefree
She was diverted to paths unbounded.


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