Out of the Macabre

No ramshackle, no derelict  decrepitude. She has come out with finesse.

 A paragon. Of architects.

Laved away the lurking fear in the morn's dew - that cried on the blossoms that bloomed.

No pall, no tear,

No nexuses noxious.  She effaced all in the fulcrum of her fire. No blood, no pathos permeates– her scars

Crimson speak of the language of her soul. Deserts she fills with the water of her oases, she carries the diamond in the coal of her collyrium eyes. The barren, fallow lands she fills - with the fertile,

And her locks contain the sable of light.

S. Rupsha Mitra