A word seems burdened, seems eerie
Falling on a line of poem in pain
Not mine, of the birds in mourning
Dripping colors of a vanishing world
A leaking pen, a fallen leaf green on altar
Mixed is this pallet with sun and rot
No pieces of this puzzle I shall ever solve
No knots with the dead birch
I shall ever liberate, forever in spell
In spell of the moon I shall wait
I shall wait for the word to never rise.
Vaishali Paliwal
