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The Glory of her Tresses
Few sing of raven’s ebony,
Fewer still of its shining plume,
The glory of her black tresses
Has for long glistened my life’s gloom.
Now that the dawn has turned to dusk,
I’ll not talk of bowers in bloom,
Nor buds that blossomed before time,
How fragrance had once filled the room.
No use nourishing memories,
Nor ever wipe them with a broom,
Soul dwells in pitch dark unknown place,
Yet, a lifetime’s spent, it to groom.
Black is no colourless baffle,
A total loss nor is vacuum
In a rainbow spectrum of life,
Nor its presence signifies doom.
Should things fail t’be so, I’d not fume,
It’s fair in life oft to assume,
And never to leave a vacuum,
Let musings fill up a bare room.
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Musings |16.04.2024| memories, black love
Copyright ©
Aniruddha Pathak
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