Saturday, February 7, 2009


The steamed mirror a perfect slate.

Her finger sketching a watery tale.

Of tearglazed flowers on a long dead tree.

Of the mirrored farce of a desert's sea.

Of EXIT signs in the middle of a show.

Of dark cobbled lanes the highway man trod.

Of the blood red rose marking the hole.

Where the bullet passed her and tore his soul.

And when new water down the mirror flows.

Her face distorts in its zigzagged rows.

A blurred reflection stirring up ghosts.

Of old oblivions, of old resolves.


mayank said...

I had to give Mistura an immediate random search..
Good to see you here..
Kids this is Miss Divya Kesri..Read and Learn :)

Vinayak said...

Everybody joins the bandwagon that doesnt seem to end... Welcome aboard !