She ran to fields, with no one to yield;

Sobs never heard, no one really cared.

Austere or auspicious?  For sure, suspicious.

She dried and her rage died.

Conflicting thought, came to nought

Painting red, better than dread.

Red ink marks, menacing work

Leaving meandering, I write wondering …

Between the reeds and her deeds,

Lay a flower wreath; a fresh air breath.

Copyright © 2017, Deeya Nayar-Nambiar