The untouched.
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The untouched.

Here the white–ray’d,

Primrose in its purfled green swathed up,

Pallid and sweet blooming budding thorn,

The vernal world, flowing life and soul that asks to fill it.

Where colors would be found amidst misty landscapes,

Painting the tendrils as soft feathers.

Darn ’em how fragile are they to break roots they planted.

Found among those saffron petals catching young minds.

Never imposing, completely without prejudices!

Stains of frightened, fragmented pearls building up!

Lost minds and hopes among and convert ’em to the sword so well.

That softly clings;

Those trusting eyes,

I was beguiled,

To wistfully love watching patterns.

The thread darning the grasp,

Down those dimpled cheeks

That forever glimmers and sparkles one after another!

The clamor and fight, the knot of wrangling.

Underneath the stars, silence

Crunchy, wet leaves rake ’em!

Scorching sun burning my skin like crisps!

And to tap out mind’s thoughts and forget,

The side darkened once more,

The hassle of sending it back

And untangle the stories of the leafless thorns and grizzled wiry bushes.

~Swagata Baruah

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