Asea of foliage girds our garden round, But not a sea of dull unvaried green, Sharp contrasts of all colours here are seen; The light-green graceful tamarinds abound Amid the mangoe clumps of green profound, And palms arise, like pillars gray, between; And o’er the quiet pools the seemuls lean, Red,—red, and startling like a trumpet’s sound But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges Of bamboos to the eastward, when the moon Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes Into a cup of silver. One might swoon Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze On a primeval Eden, in amaze.
Under the stars that whine my melancholies, the frost gives me chills and hope. Night’s crescent descends down, brimming and dousing my hollowness with faith, lightening the door to eternal bliss. All alone I stand with a smutched silhouette, loving the mum whispering lullabies in my ears, saying, “your scars are an identity, and beautiful” …
Ramya Kalyan, from Tamil Nadu, India, calls herself “an ardent tyro at writing.“
I was staring at my books listlessly in the noon, as I thought of a story about a girl and the moon.
Once upon a time, there lived a young, enthusiastic girl, who had charming eyes and lovely brown curls. She was fond of the shape shifting celstial body and would sing lullabies about its beauty daily. At nights, she would wait near the wooden door, hoping that one night it will land on the porch. She imagined riding it to the chilly North Pole, thinking about it somehow calmed her soul. She would often address it as “My Dear Moon” and for the humanity, she considered it to be a boon. “Come down to the earth, come play with me, come pay me a visit, come down to me”. She watched it change its shape every night and everytime she would be pleased with its sight.
A few years passed and the girl grew older Her hopes for the Moon’s visit became fainter. One night, when she wasn’t waiting anymore She heard a soft knock on the wooden door. The beloved Moon had come down to the earth, to visit the girl who appreciated the reflector’s worth. “Dear Moon?”, whispered the admirer doubtfully as the beloved Moon stood on the porch silently.
As I watched the girl walk towards the door Something started pulling me down on the floor, As I fell towards the floor and kept falling continuously I heard some footsteps and then a door creaked slowly I continued falling down when someone shook my shoulder “Oh dear! You’re sleeping again”, said my mother “Dreaming and exploring, Mother”, I said to her, as I thought about the fate of the Moon and its admirer.
Sheebah is a student of class XI whose hobby is to write poetry.