Emitting lusterless ray of light,
The hurricane lamp paints a monochrome of shadows; old trembling hands of Picasso is making graphics of worn out lives under the thatched roof.

Amidst those droplets of light and patches of darkness, she looks for her mirror of which she gets scared now a days.
Her face she finds ugly in daylight as she burns like unwanted weed among fleshy swelling wheat.

She trembles; will she be able to stop the robbers lurking behind somewhere in between the sun and moon!
Since, she is a mother of two children, she can’t say she is drying out of hope!

She musters her disconcertion for their pyre tonight. The hurricane lamp flared with devilish glow in a mad desire of killing fairy wings claded in milkey stainless gossamer.

Death every where. Caged or freed of shackles. She chose to be a freed quill in her sail towards darkness. She deserts her children; letting them to dream a while; she kisses their cheeks with a faint smile. No more reeks in their body under that gloomy roof.

A swollen wheat in her orbit around the emery wheel for the survival of her small Earth she adores.A master piece of old trembling hands of Picasso on its march for final touch!