That little girl—
She was a silent soul.
But the silence held her whole.
It was not cold—
She was the calm stream of the river.
She stood like a tree,
With its roots strong,
Its branches few, but bold.
She was that quiet bud
Amidst whose closed petals,
A life was waiting to blossom.
But, the air pressed her hard—
She burst into bloom too fast.
Louder,
Faster,
Brighter.
Exploration became mightier.
However, in the quiet nights,
A voice used to whisper to her right—
To not extend the branches more
For it would bend her tight.
But, her heart behaved like the uncaged,
Not to know that it was well in the cage.
Its rhythm answered to all.
She was that depression on the earth,
Which gradually brimmed with water of emotions.
An ocean with high currents of sentiment—
The silence within, turned into a chaotic thrive.
But, one day, the river lost its stream.
The branches broke under heavy weight,
And everything happened that she feared in her dream.
The hard air had torn the petals,
And the ocean dried up.
The heart lost its rhythm, exhausted by the noise outside—
It craved the cage again.
The girl stood alone, looking for that quiet whisper right,
But she could never find that night.
The chaos silenced her—
But, this time, she was not held whole.
She was the moon, with no tide to pull.
Her chest echoed like an abandoned hall,
She became the winter, after the last fall.