to hear her stories.
Her icy hair dances in the darkness
And the shrieky voice is as cute as cuckoo.
Her eyes dwelt upon my ways,
And her lullaby knells in my heart.
I crossed my legs,
reminiscing the bygone days.
Reshma L R✍️For more insights 🧐"mynewblogspotrk.blogspot.com" & Poetry collections : "Unstrung Notes", "Elysian Florets", "Wonder Meal", "Ormakal"
When I turned on the BBC this morning, all I heard was war— not in one nation, but in many; not in one battlefield, but across a wounded wor...
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