The unsaid story… An Enigma

                      
She is the book on which
tales of the time would be inscribed
With drops of crimson blood
her story would be carved
on the leaflets of time.
She is the glitter of the star
She is the shade of night
She is a mystery, a puzzle
though lucid
as day’s immaculate light

The wisps of time try to unfurl her truths…
and get astray in her zigzag curls
She is the wind carrying clouds to the arid tracts
She is the breeze playing with waves across oceans
She is the fire burning in heart of the Sun

She is the water of cascades quenching thirsts of millions
She is the power of the ancient Suns
She is the legend spinning in times of yore
She is the passion of the tumultuous cyclones
She is the stream of fostering juvenile dreams
She is the reverberation of unheard screams
She is the life of a dead yet immortal leaf
She is the silent note of the Gods misread by the vendors of life

She is the echo ringing loud
in the core of mountains
She is an untold story, an unsung song
She is a silent noise, a lonely throng
She is a smile, a tear, a faith, a fear
She holds within her the clandestine truths

Embracing the fire blazing in the Sun
enduring the blizzards of perilous moments
She is the sword of the impregnable warrior
She is the angst of the boisterous clouds
She is the dirge echoing in deceased truth’s shroud

Destroy her, slay her into tiny crumbs
She won’t blubber, she won’t ever sigh
But to tolerate the betrayal from her allies
and at pour of rain of fusillade of lies
She has to enter into a realm
as silent as night

She is the random image on surface of silent mere
with her icon waning as smoke fading in air
Her verses will be covered by sheets of dust of time
Her words will be lost in the worldy cries
But her footsteps have engraved
undying marks
on the visage of time

She is the marionette
with her strings in the hands of Unknown
Tides of destiny will melt her in a flash of a jiff
She will condense into an unlashed stream of love
flowing frantically towards her eternal asylum

She isnt me, she isnt thee
She is a whirl on the tarn of imagination
She is her creation’s own unpredictable creation
She is the chime as old as the watchman of time…
She is the unpainted picture... yet a charisma
She is the unsaid story... as if an engima