She is imbicile
Infertile,
And still holding onto hope
Of calling back
With all sorrows aside
With all memories she hides!
Staring in the dark night
At full blown moon
She silently cries!
And She!, she is like a green land
Fertilized,
Cultivated by rich sand...
Still sitting far in the corner
Looking at the same full blown moon
She thinking of her desperations of separation
Eating her from inside,
A detachment that her sand did not find in her seeds,
And this repulsion,
Between land and seed
Has enrooted deep
Withinn her deprived soul,
Still being fertile!

Womb has nothing to do with love
Its like a wild sprout
That grows by itself!!