She was not the glowing cinder, remnant of a fire,
She was the tall flames, that leapt with desire.
She was not a feather, that glided gently, too light,
She preferred to swiftly cut through the clouds, like a paper kite.
She was not the tender wavelets, which caressed the sand,
She was the mighty torrent, which overwhelmed the land.
She was not the sweet breeze of a summer afternoon,
She was the storm, which pulled high tides towards the moon.
She bravely conceals healed wounds in her heart,
Hiding the scars of love is also an art.
Niharika Prasad
