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       When I muttered, “Wear black, it suits you good,”

    She picked up the green velvet.

    When I turned off the Telly,

    She scowled shattering the glass, cursing under breath.

    When I mopped her room and dusted around, wheezing,

    She stomped her feet, yelled and shooed me away.

    And when I offered a hand,

    “Stay out, mother! You’re too old!” she snarled at my way.

     

    I dusted off the old album,

    There she was; a young lady in patterns, hopping about.

    I was nowhere (Not that I was supposed to be), she was content.

    A palette of colourful hue, gleaming in black and white,

    Oh, Wish I could satisfy my mother; tell her my thoughts and not opinions.

    And there; footsteps were close, cross ones,

    The bruised pages found themselves back in the memory.

     

    She arrived, strict and cold,

    Booming, “You’re a disgrace!”

    “Mother!” I wailed loudly,

    She hardly understood, shrieking again.

    Fire in her cheeks and grief in eyes, she grimaced at me before storming out,

    Blaming me for a million undid stories.

    Soon I finished her birthday letter,

    She stared out of the windows from her room, silent.

    Soft tears trickled, proving me pathetic.

    Wish I could tell her my thoughts and not opinions.

     

    Funny; both lament that the walls are too thick, the ice, too cold and

    The emotions, too vivid to break apart,

    Failing to notice a tiny brown backdoor broken behind.

     


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    Poet : Aishani Biswas

     

    Aishani Biswas, currently in Class 11, hails from Siliguri. Generally she prefers to spend her free time reading books, sketching, and doodling. She also plays the violin and listens to music whenever she gets time. Being an introvert, she expresses herself not through spoken words but with pen and paper. She feels her life is best written in the form of her creative work and she aspires to perfect her ideas and imagination over time.

     

      

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