The Quest

There she goes, floating down the aisle

Like a lover’s song.

A winter’s moon.

Or, like the bouquet of spring.

Ninety winters, has she survived,

anticipating her feathered death.

Her world is doomed;

albeit her shining eyes.

Eyes, captive.

In her paramour’s gaze.

Her faltering steps.

Her quivering smile.

Her fluttering heart.

I had carved a sculpture,

and then, I set her free.

Shreshtha Chakraborty

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