Purpose of the Past


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Seasons of the past,

Pure, unpolluted.

It must have been a mystical place.


And yet, as men

Hunted to feed hungry stomachs,

Where were the women?


With no freedom to leave

The homes that neither

Caged, nor protected.


Where were they, I wonder?


When icy winds turned

Tears of heaven to weapons,

Did they sit in courtyards,

Waiting for company?


Days on end,

Had they chattered meaninglessly,

Passing time, with no purpose?


Winter chills,

They bundled up

With nowhere to go


No one to see;

No one to love;

No one to protect.


How lonely could they have been,

Alone in their castles

Cottages, huts, homes, cages?


The beauty of nature was at waste.


They could not leave home. The only fascination, their own faces;

And so they strived for perfection.

For fair faces, dewy eyes, lips of carnation.


Desolation at its finest.



Author: Suditi M

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