A Withered Soul…

She was a blossom,

Born to flourish.

Full of sweet nectar,

Each bough would nourish.

Her arms were swaying,

With the soft breeze.

She sang a song,

With the golden trees.

But how she withered,

On the stalk.

The winds were blustery,

Having a loud talk.

Gradually moldered,

Her tears were shed.

Laying on the soil,

Now rotten and dead.

Her dreams got shriveled,

The sky was dusky.

Clouds with gloomy faces,

And the wind was husky.

Will she ever return,

As you come back.

Oh, how bitter you were,

Love that you lack.

PRACHI