Her hand holds the edge of the wind
While she walks, the roses sniff the air
And pray for a drop of her eyes to stay back,
Just a little, not forever,
After all, for how long can a rivulet flowing downhill be held back?
It’s feared the sun may forget to sink into the horizon
As it finds itself enmeshed in her tresses,
A speck of time lingers with patience
Hoping to catch the shadow of her,
And keep it locked away.
Tomorrow may come wrapped in a blue,
Paler or brighter,
Obscuring the splendour of today.