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Aparna Mar 2013
The sugar, the ice, glazed upon the cream buns.
An array of plates of delicacies.
The roasted pig, grunted while being chewed.
Or perhaps, that was the man who chewed it.

She stood in rags waiting to be served.
'What would 2 pence get me?'
They snickered and giggled as she,
Bought a stick of butter for dinner.
Nilotpal Dutta Jul 2015
my clothes are not torn out,
so what?
i can still write a poem
hunger isn't killing me,
so what the k?
i will still write a poem.
i ain't clouded by poverty,
and there's no hole in the ceiling
to see the stars on a clear sky.
so fu
*
g what?
i will still write a poem.
i am 'poles apart' a condition
like the  Pink Floyd's  "Division Bell".
but i am still writing my poem.
i don't read them to people,
friends, strangers or everybody.
anybody? but nobody might read them,
and I still write the poem.
Her rags become whole again,
As an ebony dress, beautifully woven,
Wraps around her frame.

Her cuts close, her bruises fade,
The aching pains that were her life have gone away,
Never to inflame.

Her boundaries are long gone,
As now she dances alone beneath the cold sun,
Of her empty world.

Her death is far behind her,
Only a distant memory remains of Earth,
As her wings unfurl.

*She flies, finally free,
But alone, her heart must freeze.

— The End —