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Pranali Vg Poem
She wanders through the town in the morning light, the firemaker's daughter, with her brilliant eyes. Her hair is wild and blazing red, and her steps are light as she walk, she treads.
She carries the flame magic, her father's gift that bears his name. She keeps the fires burning hot and bold, and her stories are fascinating and never get old.
The firemaker's daughter, with a lovely heart, she gives her warmth, her refined soul. Her excitement is unbounded as she dances in the flames, and her laughter echoes, warm and tidal.
In the blackness of the night, she is a beacon of light, her flames alight, a guiding sight. The firemaker's daughter is a force to be reckoned with. Her spirit was fiery, and her story was unknown.
Copyright © Pranali Vg | Year Posted 2023
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Pranali Vg Poem
A need to paint with all the colours of the wind,
For you over a hundred times, yet time and time again.
While the city lights shimmer like a thousand diamonds in the night,
This scene on my canvas is all what I want to unveil tonight.
Watching the neon signs flicker and glow, painting the city with vibrant lights.
Streets adorned with city lights, creating an urban symphony.
While the lights illuminate the bustling streets, guiding the way for night wanderers.
The darkness falls, the city ignites, revealing a vibrant nocturnal world.
The city lights create a sense of wonder, captivating both residents and visitors alike.
Yet you and me still ponder upon the depths of the ocean greater or the dreams of the city tonight.
Copyright © Pranali Vg | Year Posted 2023
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Pranali Vg Poem
The butterfly counts months not memories,
Of the springs and autumn that passed away.
Emancipation from all mortal bonds,
Memories afflicted only with inscrutable fond.
Draped with lamentation of the gone days,
Repairing to the valley of desolation,
Where the pieces of those leaf-like memories,
Still hold on to the transitory trees.
A spectacular array of,
The days that we had rued,
And the inclinations of beings that were true.
Without the consciences of right,
Or wrong; which makes one love or
Hate limitless.
But inevitably memories were made,
Through some did perish away,
But the butterfly counts months not memories.
Especially the ones that made our bond.
Copyright © Pranali Vg | Year Posted 2023
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Pranali Vg Poem
In the hollow chamber, I began to take form,
I, all but a grain of silence,
turned luminous by tides, day after day, night after night.
The walls slowly arched like a cathedral,
the veins lit faintly as stained glass.
The ocean daily whispered to me,
sometimes breaking with laughter,
sometimes trembling with grief,
its currents pressing inward,
a secret language etched,
into the marrow of silence we both shared.
Over time, she thought I was a pearl,
rare, eternal, shaped by beauty
of her, my mother-shell,
who gleamed with the brightest shine,
her pure body that guarded me whole.
But time unwound the myth.
The layers grew heavier, not nacre but flesh,
and when the hush broke,
I was no jewel for crowns.
I was an onion: earth-born, tear-bringing, rings folding in on rings.
I stared at her then, at her luminous shell,
her radiance unbroken, her silence holy,
while I remained so ordinary, so far from treasure.
The irony cut deep:
that such beauty had harboured me.
In pain, I turned inward, peeling myself open piece by piece.
With every peel, I saw her in me
her arching walls echoed in my rings,
my veins mirrored her once glassy threads,
a rhythm of tides folded deep.
I was just like her, but our cores, though different, were deep.
And even when I thought I was a pearl,
I never once loved her for her shine,
only for her shelter.
So even as an onion,
layered and mortal,
I carry her beauty woven through my flesh.
I may not be ethereal, not eternal
but I am loved no less, and I am no less hers.
Copyright © Pranali Vg | Year Posted 2025
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Pranali Vg Poem
Seven minutes lingered, an interim of residue,
a trembling partition between continuance and conclusion.
The body rehearsed survival, a theatre of reflex and delay.
Then the stage went silent,
a horizon drawn flat, an axis without a pulse,
and the world sank into a white silence.
Afterward, an emergence.
Not awakening, but reclassification.
not darkness, but a chamber of neutrality,
where remnants of existence drifted in an ordered abyss.
No faces, only the abstraction of record:
gestures catalogued, errors weighed beside their opposites,
the arithmetic of a lifetime balanced without judgment.
No weeping, no pleading, just the hollow patience of cattle.
An attendant present neither stern nor merciful, only procedural,
spoke as if reading an inventory.
Then a designation was issued.
At first numerical, then nominal.
Identification persisted, even as the self no longer did.
The chamber resembled judgment,
yet nothing of judgment occurred.
Records lay in sequence: notations, erasures, marginalia.
"An account, not a verdict." The clerk read,
Errors and kindnesses balanced in two columns.
The result: Passable.
A new dossier appeared.
Families arranged in archival order,
faces attached for reference.
Instruction: Choose.
The choice was not preference, but compliance
the necessity of continuation.
From abstraction into assignment,
from absence into recurrence.
Thus the cycle proceeds:
not reward, not punishment, but iteration.
Existence drafted again,
not as consequence but as mechanism.
The soul does not inherit.
The soul does not stumble.
The soul is allocated, reinserted,
until the ledger of moral requires no more.
Copyright © Pranali Vg | Year Posted 2025
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Pranali Vg Poem
Don’t be sad over what you have lost,
Smile for what you had.
If you inflict pain in every memory,
Each memory then turns bad.
Just close your eyes and picture them,
Like the polaroid photo you had.
Imagine the same harelip smile,
plastered on that doll like face.
You can’t undo what had been done,
The hourglass would only be filled with tears.
Capture that feeling sitting on a pomegranate tree,
Sitting with a person who’s mouthed first word,
Embraced in it your name.
Ulterior motive “for you a thousand times over”,
The words remain.
Capture that same memory,
Feel it every day,
Forever in you that memory lives,
Forever it will stay.
Forgive those who had gone,
And those waiting to go.
For the one that mattered the most,
Left a piece of himself for you to hold.
An old nemesis approached,
under Hitler propaganda as disguise.
Or maybe it Was Karma an old friend; a vice.
For you a thousand times over,
loyalty to be proven not proclaimed,
But this time it was my turn,
To run the blue kite blade.
In the end it will not be the words of my enemies,
That I will remember,
But the silence of my brother; my friend.
Although I rewarded loyalty with distance,
But even broken crayons still colour the same.
Because remembering him is easy,
I do it every day.
But there is an ache within my heart,
That never went away.
But it all fell in place with that one call
“There is a chance of being good again.”
Alas in the end however a king died a slave
Copyright © Pranali Vg | Year Posted 2022
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Pranali Vg Poem
As the southern winds blew,
I, all but a firework maker’s daughter; stood still.
He demanded I learn the craft as he taught,
but that was never my intention at heart.
I sought not to carry forward his legacy,
but to build my own.
Every strike of iron, every spark,
every recipe of flame I disowned.
I rewrote every page, for I was young blood, I would know better than an old soul.
Then word spread: a great competition would be held, to crown the maker of the world’s finest firework.
I entered, and so did my father.
I, with my overconfidence; he, trusting only his steady skill.
I wandered foreign lands, unburdened by tether or responsibility,
while he called me home, offering another chance to begin anew.
I turned away, clutching rebellion in my fists, sparks clinging to my fingertips,
ignoring the map of his hands the southern winds kept pressing toward me.
I told myself: One day I will soar farther than these gusts,
chasing horizons I cannot yet name.
For tonight, I am tempest and spark,
and he is only the quiet fire that keeps the night from swallowing me whole.
I worked furiously at the end,
launching prototypes fortnight by fortnight,
painting dawn across the villagers’ skies.
Daily persistence, he had said,
but I dismissed it, a fool’s labor,
for true winners seize glory at the last minute.
I had the skill, after all.
On the day of the contest, I lit a thousand fireworks.
The sky erupted, the villagers frozen mid-step,
as though the sun itself had risen too soon.
Applause thundered. Glory was mine.
And then; his firework rose.
A quiet arc, no boast of colour, no frantic flare.
It opened into constellations, patterns traced with patient hands,
stars stitched across the heavens.
It burned a lot longer than mine,
clearer, finer; a magic I had never learned.
Was this the map he had tried to entrust me?
The lesson I had deflected?
My first conquest ended in silence,
as he stood among the crowd, not as victor, not as teacher, but as a passerby
with only a quiet smile and nod.
When the applause swelled, he had already returned to his shed.
No false humility, no “I told you so”, just the rhythm of work,
drop after drop, until they became an ocean.
Father, it was then that you who taught me: glory is fleeting, craft is eternal.
You worked until your shoes wore thin.
And when I finally earned the right to wear them,
I discovered that,
they were too large, too heavy to fill.
Copyright © Pranali Vg | Year Posted 2025
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Pranali Vg Poem
Fingers pull at sunlight, warm and trembling,
curling it around small, unstoppable palms.
Dust sparkles in the air like fairy particles,
twirling and whirling as if the sky itself,
is shaking secrets like sprinkles just for me.
The carpet folds beneath bare toes, soft as moss and rough as bark,
each step a drumbeat in a forest of my own making.
The tongue tastes words as they form, sweet with dust and sharp with soap,
syllables ripening before they leave the lips.
Shadows slither across walls, curling and uncoiling,
following the hum of laughter that trembles in the throat and spills like water.
Torchlight puppets move across surfaces as I narrate stories of beasts and wonders,
I have not yet lived to see,
yet they feel as real as any game of pretence,
as real as the tents I build and the villages I raise,
from mats and bedsheets, with soft toys aligned as citizens.
All puddles tremble under my boots, reflecting clouds that wink and wander,
a leaf pirouetting from nowhere, a stick humming secret music,
and the wind pressing soft against the nape of my neck,
telling stories in a language only skin can hear.
Knees bloom with tiny triumphs, trenches of scraped concrete,
deepened by running barefoot, but nothing my mother cannot coo away.
My hands remain sticky with juice and glue, ears wide for the scrape of a chair,
the creak of a door, the whisper of pages, the symphony of ordinary miracles.
And still, my eyes open wider, drinking the tilt of light,
the smell of wet earth, the shimmer of moving air.
The world is alive, trembling, waiting for nothing,
but to be touched and tumbled through by little smiles,
a submerged continent rising just for my delight.
Copyright © Pranali Vg | Year Posted 2025
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Pranali Vg Poem
Walk in casually,
In a house of mirrors especially.
You might differ in shape and size,
But don’t worry life is just alike.
On the opposite wall,
You might see.
That’s a reflection of you.
But not true exactly
Copyright © Pranali Vg | Year Posted 2022
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Pranali Vg Poem
He gathered flowers, petals which felt like first rain,
“She loves me; not” his heart in strain,
Relentless plucks, his hope at test,
Until the final petal indeed whispered, “yes”.
While in the forest she roamed, mustering her tone,
Carefully and with good measure picking up each stick and stone,
Her purpose and dreams were clear,
For in the forest’s embrace she was overcoming her fear,
Destined to meet at the meadows their paths to align,
Both displayed their treasure, intentions benign.
Yet when he saw her’s, he fled in fear, from their dream, her call, abandoning it all.
Leaving behind a spinster in solitude's bitter thrall,
Who just wanted to weave her homely call.
Copyright © Pranali Vg | Year Posted 2023
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