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Her parents weren’t there to cry
The day that sleeping beauty died.
First Dad, then Mother, slipped away
as their comatose daughter slept each day.
Through forty two years of dreamless sleep
Her loving family did their promise keep.
A drug reaction was the cause
of her coma irreversible.
By the power of
Unconditional love
The faint flickering flame
Of life stayed possible.
Until today did beauty lie.
Until today did life endure.
Today she smiled and opened her eyes
Only then did beauty die..
Based on the story of Edwarda O’Bara, a Florida woman, who went into a diabetic coma in 1970 and was cared for at home by her family until, Yesterday, she passed away
 Nov 2012 Lyra Brown
Àŧùl
In the pale sunlight of the morning,
I miss your divine glow.
In the shining sunlight of the noon,
I miss your angelic shadow.
In the sinking sunlight of the evening,
I miss you and only you.

In the harsh winds of the society,
I miss your strong care.
In the large outside world unknown,
I miss your natural love.
In the massive tree of a billion people,
I miss you and only you.

In the beautiful meadows,
I miss your voice.
In the scenic mountains,
I miss your company.
In the picturesque seas,
I miss you and only you.
Okay, this is a poem for my mother and I hope she loves it.

My HP Poem #10
© Atul Kaushal
 Nov 2012 Lyra Brown
Anais Nin
"Why one writes is a question I can never answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
...
"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."
('The New Woman', 1974)

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