Short Story 17 : So close and yet, so far.

Theme : Loss.

The story of a loss can be hard to explain and harder to describe on paper.

                                                                        - Jessica Handler.

There is no dearth of literature describing loss. While loss of love, particularly romantic love, takes more precedence in literature, there are kinds of loss, with myriad shades to it that offer ample scope to write about.

I have attempted one such piece of fiction, which is an all too common scenario in the world today.

***
So close and yet, so far.

They are all here. Every one of them. I am surprised. No, I’m in fact, pleasantly shocked. After all, why would they have come now, after all these years?

Eight years, seven months and twenty two days, actually. That’s when I was officially declared as a loner, so to speak. Or a destitute, an old woman with no one to call her own. Orphaned in old age. I feel the cracked skin on my face crease sorely while I smile.

I turn my head slightly, trying not to wince at the ache this minimal movement causes me. I can hear a shallow scraping noise, stemming from somewhere near me at regular intervals. It coincides with the spurts of searing pain that shoot down my throat, down to my heaving lungs…wait, is that my own breathing?

My eyes focus on a vision, two feet away from me. Ah, wonder of wonders! Shravan is here! The same Shravan who had put me here in the first place. Here, as in, this old age home, if this godforsaken place could even be called that.

‘Ma, we can’t afford your expenses anymore, Radha has threatened to divorce me if I do not send you away…and you know how difficult it was for you to find a bride for me in the first place…and now after the twins were born, the expenses have shot through the roof…’ he had said, not meeting my unflinching gaze.

He seems…sad now, somehow. In fact he is weeping. My son has not aged a single day, I notice. My heart swells in pride, as I take in his straight jet black hair combed neatly to the right of his broad forehead. And hey, his wife is here as well, with their twins. 

Ah, my grandchildren. They are as cute as they were when I last saw them all those years ago. There is something odd though. They do not seem to have grown much despite all these years. How is that? I wonder.

And what are their names now…something that rhymed with my son’s wife’s parents…I cannot recall their names. They stare at me, holding hands, confusion writ in their large eyes. They look miserable too, although the mickey mouse on their identical T-shirts look happy enough. They seem to be wearing the same clothes they used to wear when I still lived in their home. Do they still remember all the stories I used to tell them? I hope they do…I wonder.

I hear a muffled sob on my right. I turn my head slightly towards the sound. Ah, there’s Jahnvi, my daughter. When did she return from the UK? Jahnvi, my goddess. Oh, she is weeping inconsolably. Her young son clutches the ends of her red pallu, tugging it to get her attention…ah, she has worn the saree I had bought for her ten years ago, just before she had left for the UK as a new bride. She had scoffed then when she saw my gift, hadn’t she?

‘Ma!’ she’d cried in exasperation. ‘Who in their right minds wears sarees in London, ma? Rakesh has already bought me a brand new wardrobe of western clothes, all paid for in pounds you know…’ the pride of a new bride flaunting the successful husband, his enviable wealth & his amorous generosity was evident in her tone. 

‘I’m leaving all these old-fashioned clothes right here with you, give them away to some…some orphanage or something…,’ she continued her instructions to me, as she shoved my Kanchivaram silk gift into the plastic bag with the said clothes. I thought of the two and a half hours I’d spent going from one shop to another, hunting for the perfect gift for her.

I’d held back my tears then and smiled at her, but she had noticed neither. Ah, the pompous, hyper-excitement of a small town girl going abroad for the first time in her life…

I smile now at the memory, the memory of my only daughter parading her elevated status, to her imbecile mother. And yet, here she is, at her mom’s deathbed, wearing the same saree. How had she gotten hold of it now, after so many years? 

I try to smile more and wince as the cracks of my laugh lines break against my haggard skin. I become aware of suffocation deep in my chest. I recognize the well-known feeling.

My throat is parched, I need water.

Would Jahnvi understand that I’m terribly thirsty? If only she would stop crying and look at me once. Surely my cracked lips and dry tongue would indicate to her, how dehydrated I am.

Jahnvi, the Ganges river. If only she would pour a little water down my shriveled throat now…I continue to stare at her bent head, wordlessly willing her to look up at me.

It was Goutam who had insisted on naming our children Jahnvi and Shravan.  Goutam, my dear husband, who had passed soon after the twins were born to our son. If only Goutam had lived for another few years, I lament for the millionth time since his death…

I turn my head slightly to look back at my son. He is holding the twins in his arms and whispering something to them now.

Shravan…why had Goutam named our son Shravan? Something nags my mind. Ah, yes! Because he had been born a long six years after our wedding. Shravan, the name of a son, who’s love for his parents was the stuff of mythological legends.

I smirk, as I contemplate the son fate had blessed me with, instead.

My throat issues a new protest and a volley of coughs racks my chest all of a sudden. I feel Jahnvi’s soft palm on my chest, patting me. She murmurs something soothing to me, I cannot understand a single word. She seems to be talking in another language. Oh yes, it must be the new accent she’s been practicing, the one which she said was ‘cool’. It sounds the same as it always did on the phone…when had she last called me? Was it 5 years ago? I cannot recall.

My cough subsides, more out of sheer exhaustion than relief. Water. I need water. One glass…or just half a glass shall suffice. Oh, how it would feel, how blissful it would feel, to have the languid flow of that divine liquid down my gasping mouth, my dry tongue and arid throat.

The torment is down to my belly now, the cancer that has seized my insides and ravaged my very soul…or is it a tumor? I did not understand what the doctor had diagnosed last month, he’d been more interested in flirting with the warden’s young daughter, than tend to his ancient patient, with one leg in the grave. After all, why would he bother with an old hag like me? I couldn’t even afford his consultation fees, let alone the treatment.

I close my eyes and concentrate on the grating noise, emanating from my throat. It seems a lot louder now. A cuckoo begins its song of joy, from the mango tree outside. The calculated rhythm of its tone, matches the garbled noise of my throat with unerring precision.

I open my eyes.

The wall, the same wall that I have stared at for many months now, gapes back at me. My son and his lovely family have now been replaced by the face. The grey-black face, the mocking face, that everyone else calls torn, half-peeled paint, sneers down at me, with the same cruelty, yet again.

I look away, towards where my daughter had been a little earlier. There is a wooden table that stands crookedly with one leg broken. 

An unwashed plate, wearing leftover stains from this morning’s breakfast of one katori of dry upma, leans against the wall. A stainless steel lidless jug, yellowed with years of accumulated grime, stands precariously balanced in front of it, on the wrecked table.

Ah, water. Wretched water. Blessed water. So close and yet so far…

I know that the attendant assigned to me, albeit reluctantly, wouldn’t bother to look in on me until it is time for my breakfast tomorrow. After all, how would she know that the old hag in room number 8, is close to kicking the bucket tonight? Not that she’d have bothered with me, even if knew, in any case.

I smile again, heedless of the pain my despicable body assaults me with.

Loss. The inevitable price one must pay, for having bestowed love. And I had imparted love with unconditional abandon.

Love. Love that I had given to a husband, who had loved me too.

Love, that I showered on my children, without restraint.

Love, I believe I once had from the same children, but eventually lost, although I know not why.

The greater the love, the higher the torment of its loss.

But now, as I count the wheezing breaths that herald the end of my fifty nine years, I do not crave the loss of love or my loved ones.

All I desperately crave is…a last sip of water.

*****

Image credits: Google.
Old woman Paintings : Artist Juan Miguel's Wounded series.

Words - A Poem.

Words.

Blank pages beckoned
to me

 in an accusing litany; 

A secret universe awakened
in me

 in an enlightening epiphany; 

Words spill unreckoned,
from me 

in an undulating symphony.

***

Image : Google.

Short Story 16 : Dark Fright & the seven Dwarfettes.

Theme : Dry Humor.

Deadpan, dry humor or dry wit describes the deliberate display of a lack of or no emotion, commonly as a form of comedic delivery to contrast with the ridiculousness of the subject matter. The delivery is meant to be blunt, ironic, laconic, or apparently unintentional.

This story is a modern day adaptation of a well-known fairy tale, albeit in a highly transformed presentation.

There is a deliberate attempt to mock some of the most common quirks of society, as well as some skewed perceptions of people, in general. I believe that dry humor is the best way to come up with ways to bring about a change, no matter how infinitesimal, in the way society thinks and functions, especially in fiction.

Note: I coined the word 'Dwarfette' for this tale. It somehow seemed more apt than the term 'Female Dwarf' or 'Lady Dwarf'. 

      Dark Fright and the seven Dwarfettes.  

                        

She was sexy. Not just nice-figure sexy. Oh, that is just so cliché. She was the whole package of sheer, raw sensuality and loads of ooommph rolled into one. Her voice was as rich and languid, as pure dark chocolate, darker than…well my skin, perhaps.

And damn, she was fair. Not fair, as in, you know what the south Indians call 'milky-white', as-white-as-milk fair? No, she was a medium shade of fair, what they describe as ‘wheatish’ in the matrimonial con ads. Did you know that ‘wheatish’ was not even a word in the oxford dictionary, until very recently? Poor brown-colored Indians, usually get fucked in more ways than one.

Anyways, this is a story you would have read in your fairy tale books as a child. However, in my version, fate decided to twist it according to her pathetic whims and add some spice in the end too. Yes, given the way she thinks, fate is definitely a woman…but let’s not go there. That’s another story for another day.

Nonetheless, this Goddess I spied from across the vast expanse of the stage was exquisite, not only in her acting prowess but also…well, everything else.

And I wasn’t the only one swooning over her beauty out here. Oh no. I probably have only another two hundred thousand dudes around the country competing with me, for her to know about our existence on the planet.

‘Ain’t she gorgeous, Fright?’ The raspy voice startled me. I turned towards it, turned down rather. I had to crane my neck downwards, because the owner of the voice was only two feet tall.

‘Yeah, she is, Khushi,’ I replied.

And yes, you heard that right, my name is indeed Fright. Or that’s what I’m popularly known as. Well, I am tall dark and handsome...well not really handsome in the true sense of the word…but I suppose I might look rather nice from certain angles with the right lighting.

I only earned my nickname Fright after I managed to pour boiling oil over the side of my face, over my cheeks and the side of my neck when I was 22. That’s when I began to appear scary to random people who don’t know that I am one of the most soft-spoken men you’d ever come across.

Strange as it sounds, I have never minded people calling me Fright. In fact, I am now a proud junior artist who is always chosen first to play the villain in most plays across the state. Even though I currently live in the same building as many other artists from all over the country and have painstakingly moved up the ranks from a mere extra, to junior artist, it only takes one look at my face for people to maintain a safe distance from me. Except the dwarfettes. 

Yeah you heard that right too. Seven dwarfettes in all, live in the floor above my dingy one room flat in Ullas vihar apartment in Shivajinagar. And they were here only because the woman who held my marvelous attention is a hardcore feminist in real life. A man-hater that she is, she absolutely refused to work with men, not even dwarfs…this, even though she shared zero space with them on the stage.

A light snore that I barely noticed brought a semblance of rhythm that matched the pace of my racing heart.  Nidradevi was fast asleep on a chair, in the far corner of the stage. The applause reverberated across the auditorium. Nidra woke with a start, turned towards the stage where Mohini Kumari was bowing her elegant head towards the audience, with that divine smile plastered across her face.

‘Ahh, why do people have to clap so hard? A woman can’t even catch a few forty winks in peace here,’ Nidra yawned before settling deeper into the chair and closing her eyes again.

If only I could get closer to Mohini…I thought frantically.

‘What are you gaping at?’ Another voice spoke up beside me. I jumped again before looking down at Krodha. As usual, she wore the eternal grumpy expression on her face.

‘Don’t worry, Frighty, you will be able to get an autograph from her if you hang around the auditorium for another week or so…’ Buddurani chimed in. ‘You can then take a snap of it and post it proudly on Facebook too! You would get a 100 likes and make everyone black with jealousy!’ She continued, clapping her hands delightfully at her smashing idea. No one even knows her real name. We all call her BR, for short.

‘If you’d applied Fair-&-Lovely lotion thrice a day on your face and rubbed Mederma cream over the scars five times a day and washed yourself with multaani-mitti paste twice a day, as I had prescribed for you last year, your skin would have shone like the moon by now,’ chided Vaidya from the other corner, ‘You would have married Mohini and had seven fair kids…’ Her voice trailed off when she saw the distressed look of guilt on my face.

‘No, he wouldn’t. Nothing is ever going to work for him in his sorry life, definitely not a romance,’ the wistful voice of Udaasi spoke up in almost a whisper, tears glistening in her eyes.

The dwarfettes had entered the stuffy space on the backstage, silently behind Krodha. 

Now, you may be wondering what a bunch of dwarfettes were upto in the semi-darkness, on the backstage of the Ravindra Kalakshetra auditorium, on a bright and cheerful Wednesday morning.  

Well they were here to play lead roles in the play ‘Snow white and the 7 dwarfs’, which had a grand opening last Friday morning.

And Mohini Kumari was the evil stepmother, no less. So, what was I doing here? No, nothing as fancy as playing a part in the mega event of the week. In fact, I had to beg Khushi to allow me to give her a ride to the auditorium, so that I could get a glimpse of my idol, Mohini. And I was even more convinced that Mohini is indeed far more gorgeous than that gangly woman who plays the role of Snow white.

‘Krodha, will you please introduce me to her? Please…’ I almost begged the dwarfette who stood next to me.

Unfortunately, Mohini was apparently fond of only this dwarfette and Krodha never let go of an opportunity to torture me with this power.

‘Haha, we don’t wanna lose our vamp of the play so soon, frightful fellow,’ Krodha sneered before turning her back on me to prepare for her entry on the stage, along with the six other ladies.

***

‘Aaaackshiiii!’ The sneeze was massive.

‘Oh fuck, you ruined it now,’ I scolded Achoota. She could never control her sneezes that always had the prudent quality of erupting at the worst possible moments.

Mohini stepped out of her chamber and spotted the sneezing woman huddling outside her door.  It had taken me a bribe of two rounds of Kingfisher to convince dwarfettes Achoota & Shamilee to accompany me to Mohini’s chamber in the Kalakshetra after her rehearsals were over. But then, true to her name, Sharmilee had hidden behind the huge velvet blue screens even before we had come halfway to our destination. 
So now, here I was, standing a mere two feet to the left of a sneezing female, who was wiping her nose with a tissue, unaware of Mohini peering down at her in the semidarkness. And then, to my chagrin, Achoota just turned on her heel and plodded back the way we had come, still clutching her nose in a dismal attempt to curb her sneezes.

All the words I had rehearsed flew right out of my brain.

Maam, I am you fan, please may I have a selfie with you?

I had rehearsed this line for almost two hours yesterday. The same man who effortlessly spouted pages of villainous dialogues on stage in front of a packed audience, stood tongue-tied now.

Mohini didn’t even look at me. She didn’t notice me at all. Perhaps I blended so well in the darkness that I was invisible.

Click! One second I was staring gob-smacked at the most beautiful creature I had ever seen in my life and the next minute, I was gaping at a closed door. She had shut the door on my invisible face.

***

‘Eeeeeek!’ She let out a high-pitched shriek of panic and fear.

 I stood absolutely still, in elation. She had looked at me at last. Yeah, I finally got her attention, her complete attention. Better still, I even had a live video capturing this moment into eternity for me. Yeah, the dwarfettes were ready, aimed with their camera phones to capture Dark Fright and Mohini Kumari in one single frame.

Well, I know you were looking for a perfect romance in my love story but hey, lets get real here, shall we? 

Life ain’t the fairy tale that you are made to believe it is. And no one knows this better than me. Which is why, I decided that I might as well meet the woman of my dreams doing what I do best: Scaring the living daylights out of her. I succeeded, and how!

She turned on her heel and rushed out of the side exit where she had appeared from. I became aware of my inhalation coming in short gasps and realized that I had been holding my breath all this while.

I turned to face the seven little women who emerged from their various hiding places from behind the seats and curtains. We had taken the prerogative to ensure that the power-lights had been switched on and aimed at the perfect angle to capture the best moment of my life.

A broad grin lit up my shadowy face even as I exchanged a high-five with Khushi and received a withering scoff from Krodha. Vaidya was busy writing out a prescription for God-knows-who and didn’t even look up at me. Udaasi refused to meet my eyes because she tried to hide her tears from me. She was probably crying because her video was grainy or maybe because she knew that I would never get Mohini in this lifetime.

I followed a blushing Sharmilee out of the exit, even as  a volley of sneezes from Achoota woke up a very annoyed Nidradevi, who had of course, fallen asleep at her station behind the curtain.

The sun had left an orange glow over purple clouds as a tall dark man sporting a scarred face, with seven tiny women trudging in single file were silhouetted against the sky, as they made their way towards a cab awaiting them on JC road.

******

Picture Credits : Google.

Artist of painting : Igor Lysen

On the Edge - Poems.

Theme : Hopes and Fears

Penning poetry for interesting pictures is my favourite pastime. This digital art by Alan Simas is one of the most compelling pictures I have come across. I attempted two pieces of poetry for the same.

***

On the Edge

On the edge of abyss & sky, 

in a stoic stance, 

I stand alone 

Muted memories whisper & sigh, 

in a mocking dance, 

tattered & torn. 

Feral feelings wither & die, 

askance, 

till I'm made of stone.

***

Take me higher & higher 

till there are no more heights

left to soar; 

Till I'm made of stone, I admire, 

the scintillation of sensual delights 

more & more; 

On the edge of destiny's tier, 

I rewrite with summoned mights, 

my own folklore.

*****

Image Credits : Digital Art by Alan Simas

Short Story 15 : Liar Lair, Claps for Hire.

Theme : Being Kafkaesque.

Being Kafkaesque, is an expression that arose from the adjectivization of Franz Kafka, the famous bohemian novelist of the 18th century. 

It refers to nightmarish situations that most people may encounter or relate to, although they seem strongly surreal. It is strongly characteristic or reminiscent of the the oppressive qualities of Franz Kafka's works of fiction. 

His seminal fictional world had a strong premise of cruelty, insularity and lack of forgiveness in them and Kafka's characters populating this world, are often seen to be powerless against the absurdity of events happening to them. 

This story is based on a Kafkaesque theme, with an attempt to connect weird surrealism it to blatant reality.

***

Liar Liar, Claps For Hire.

  ‘I love you, baby…’ His voice is hoarse, almost a whisper. He attempts to clear his throat and ignores the old man. He must say it again, in a clear voice.

  One, two, three…

  ‘I love you too, Madhu..’ Neha smiles. He stares at her, dumbfounded. Can’t she hear it?

 ‘I love…’ he attempts a reply, but no sound emanates from his lips. His eyes are drawn, without his permission to the sound, to the source of the clear beats behind Neha.

  …Six, seven, eight…

 ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, after I wind up at the theater. Take care then,’ she picks up her books, purse and shades, bends down to place a peck on his cheek. His girlfriend of two months, the celebrated actress, Neha Kaur, who has promised him a break in the industry, turns on her heel with a dazzling smile and walks towards the exit.

   …eleven , twelve…

  Can’t she see him? She walks right past him, no way she could have missed that old asshole, and yet...

  …thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. 

  The old man stops clapping. His wheelchair turns in a smooth curve and moves towards the exit, a few paces behind Neha.

  A bead of surreptitious sweat rolls down, behind Madhu’s ear. What the hell is happening? Who is that bastard? Where does he come from? How does he appear all of a sudden, whenever…

  ‘Bill, saab!’ The waiter plunks a piece of paper, in a small stainless steel plate in front of him. Madhu fumbles in his wallet, pulls out a 500-rupee note, & puts it atop the bill, barely glancing at it. He stumbles his way towards the door, unaware of the now smiling waiter, who is saluting his back gleefully, for the ridiculously generous tip for a mere cup of tea.

  He would follow the old man today. And…ask him. How? Why?

  How did he know?

 How did he know when to appear? It was now obvious to Madhu. Madhu was no fool.

 An accomplished liar is anything but a fool. And Madhu is a specialist.

  Wasn’t it he, who had convinced the principal of his school to part with 200 rupees to treat an imaginary ailing mother, the day he wanted to miss the math exam?

  He, who had even fleeced the house maid of most of her salary, with that cock-and-bull story of a severe stomach ache, to treat his friends to Jim Carrey's blockbuster, 'Liar Lair' in college. His father had caned him for that, when he found out, but Madhu still smiles at the fond memory of the con.

  Making fools out of people is an art. And he is a talented artist, indeed. After all, he has been practicing all his life.

  All had been well, until that fateful day last week. He'd been going to meet Neha after work, when the  accident happened. If only he'd seen the policeman waiting patiently behind the truck to trap motorists who flout the rules, but of course he'd been too preoccupied to notice. 

   Madhu had jumped the signal and tried to avoid a pothole, when he collided onto the edge of the pavement to land with a thud, right at the cop’s waiting feet, complete with a small bump on the back of his head. He'd not worn the helmet because he hadn’t wanted to ruin the perfect hairstyle that Neha adored so much. Madhu noticed the gleam of greed in the policeman’s eyes, even before he picked himself up from the one-way street corner and dusted off his clothes.

   But then, he was Madhu, the trickster, wasn’t he? Only a genius could have made the traffic policeman to part with 300 rupees after violating the signal rules, with that classic yarn of a hospitalized child…He was a gifted artist indeed.

  Madhu’s chest swells with pride at the memory, until a flash of what happened afterward, assaults his mind. The half-smile dies on his lips and his chest constricts with…a fear he can neither put a name to nor describe.

   That was when it had begun, the nightmare of the old man.

  The old man in a pinstriped suit, a neatly trimmed snow-white beard, a black cap, and black leather shoes that gleamed on large feet, that rested squarely on the footrest of a wheelchair to boot. 

  He had appeared out of nowhere on the pavement, just as Madhu started his bike after conning the policeman. He looked Madhu in the eye, and never looked away. Oh those eyes, those eyes seemed to penetrate his very soul, even from across the street…

  And then, the man had clapped. Slowly, surely and deliberately. Clap, Clap, Clap…the sound was loud enough to be heard, despite the honking noise of the traffic. It was beyond creepy, the way the man looked at Madhu as if he knew. Knew that Madhu had lied.

  Since then, the man had begun to appear each time Madhu spoke a lie. The same suit, the same wheelchair, the same cap, the same shoes, the same goddamned eyes.

  And the claps. The claps that undulated in a slow rhythm into his ears, to pierce his skull & reel inside his brain like a chilling symphony. Lies. Lies. Lies. Fifteen claps, every fucking time.

  The most unsettling part was that no one cared! People went about their business like the man did not exist! No one gave him a second look, people just moved around the wheelchair and passed him, like having an aged person in a wheelchair in the unlikeliest of places, was the most natural thing in the world.

  The loud cry of a child brings Madhu out of his reverie. He looks around, to find himself on the driveway of the restaurant he has just exited out of. As expected, the man on the wheelchair has disappeared.

  Who is that man? Why does he appear as soon as Madhu utters a lie? Ah, it must be a conspiracy by his enemies. They must have hired the man to clap. Yes, that was it! The fifteen claps were nothing but a twisted ruse by his enemies to freak him out and get him to admit his deceits, maybe even elicit revenge in a distorted fashion for being wronged by his deceptions.

  What is he going to do? How does he end this crap? That man..how does he stop him from driving him crazy?

  Perhaps the old bastard would not appear if Madhu tries to tell the truth? No! That is impossible…he can’t possibly stop lying! Not now, after years of honing the skill to near perfection. But then, that man with his knowing eyes and his deliberate claps…

  Madhu wipes off the perspiration that moves in a free flow, from the tangled hair glued to his forehead, down over his face.

  What is he going to do? Madhu absently rubs the bump on the rear of his head to reduce the dull throbbing, while he deliberates his next move.

*****

Picture Credits: Google

The Dance Of Illusion - A Sonnet.

                                                                  A SONNET.

The sonnet is a popular classical form of poetry that has compelled poets for centuries. It is derived from the Italian word 'Sonetto' which means 'a little sound or song'. Traditionally, the sonnet is a fourteen-line poem written in iambic pentameter, which employ one of several rhyme schemes and adhere to a tightly structured thematic organization. 

There are two types of Sonnets. The first one is the Petrarchan Sonnet, perfected by the Italian poet Petrarch, divides the 14 lines into two sections: an eight-line stanza (octave) rhyming ABBAABBA, and a six-line stanza (sestet) rhyming CDCDCD or CDEEDE.

The second one is the Shakespearean Sonnet (English Sonnet) which condenses the 14 lines into one stanza of three quatrains and a concluding couplet, with a rhyme scheme of ABABCDCDEFEFGG.

Many poets, however, have been found to vary these schemes frequently.

This is my first attempt at penning a sonnet. Although I would have liked to stay loyal to my all-time favourite poet, the Bard, I have adopted the Petrarchan style in my sonnet.

***

The Dance Of Illusion.

In a profound prance of elation,

as the weary orb bids goodbye,

her unseen wings fan an urge to fly

in a carefree caper of jubilation.

In a newfound trance of liberation,

the scarlet heaven, surge her spirits high.

Copious clouds retreat in a silent sigh,

in a spree of serene seclusion.

Her success is but an illusion,

for the graveyard of failures seldom lie.

Despite the toil of tireless ambition,

her dominion of dreams refuses to die.

In an ecstatic dance of exultation,

she undulates to the rhythm of the sky.

*****

Image courtesy : Google.