• my_cup_of_poetry 130w

    One day the tree
    on which my mother
    had made a nest
    leaned like
    the tower of Pisa ,

    And fell upon my
    round head.
    I didn't die but
    started drawing
    paddy fields
    with sunrise,
    the ones that
    weren't visible now.

    I stopped looking at
    what was visible,
    Naked broken
    A ruined nest.
    A dead mother.


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