She read His poems at night...... The lines slid down her legs, Like the fingers of an experienced hand........ Clinging to a hidden flower, Words adorned it, Laying bare what lies beneath, Which glows most precious. And, closing his eyes in meter, He kissed her breasts. And the brakes cried out, And sealed them shut. ........ She read at night Of bodies laid bare, And each time, barely beginning to Withdraw but could not. When the moment of Ecstasy lifts into the sky, Enchanted pages of books Caressed her skin........ And it all ended many times! In new ways! Even more fierce!........ The fire was tamed, but not spent. And the book remained with her!
# Woman and Poems A woman walks through the marketplace, her dupatta trailing like a question mark. The vendors call out their wares— she hears only the silence between their voices. At home, she arranges flowers the way a poet arranges words: chrysanthemum, rose, jasmine— each one a confessional, each one a prayer. Her hands know the grammar of bread, the syntax of salt in boiling water. Yet something in her moves like metaphor, restless, refusing the ordinary sentence. In the evening, she reads by lamplight. The book trembles in her fingers. These are not her words, but they are hers— the way a river owns the rain that falls into it. She thinks of the girl she was, how her dreams came wrapped in silence, how she learned to speak in whispers and call it contentment. Now, at the edge of sleep, verses rise unbidden from her chest— wild, unnamed, dangerous— like birds that remember the sky before the cage was built. She does not write them down. She lets them scatter into the dark, those unborn poems, those daughters she will never have.
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