There stands a misty forest
Deep down inside her heart.
Where there’s no chirping of birds,
No bellow of the hart
Where it’s all damped and deaden
And there flows the river of despair.
Where fallen leaves have the names
Of people who never cared.
Where stories of her sufferings
Are whispered by the branches as they blow.
A tale about the truth,
What made that forest grow.
Where vines of her miseries
Are too deep and stout.
That no matter how much you cut,
More will always sprout out.
Where it’s all dark and ding
And the canopy blocks the light.
But her heart still shimmers
With a blaze not so bright.
A flickering little gleam,
Swirling all around the trees.
Lighting up the dim and dull,
With its impish glee.
And this barely glowing warmth
Is what keeping her heart alive
For when she couldn’t find a Sun
She discovered her dancing fireflies.
About the Poet:
Priyanshu Mehta (Guest Poet)