Ashes from her graveyard,
prompted her verses to fly.
And her lines got birth
And got applause too,
But she laid their still.
Ink which ejected her ideas,
Was stained with stillness now.
The pain of oblivion got voice
And the pain of separation is ignited.
But the poet was unlucky to see the flight,
And was doomed of hearing her verses too.
Now her soul is flipping the pages,
And her grave is filled with music.
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