© Amrutha T A
She is a withered champa
An unfurling saga
Halfway lost like a scarlet woman
In the garret of poesy.
Shed herself in my grandmother’s garden,
And spread herself a chalky aroma.
Hoary cobweb reached her hand in hand;
Loved as if they were one.
I like to compare her to a woman.
A woman among archetypes,
Living in an apocalyptic world
At war, in the battlefield.
The moment she struggles,
The moment she smiles winsomely,
They pluck her, crush her and squeeze her.
What an unfortunate fortune she is!