She smells of rain, Elven, and speaks of grass
She walks by time, sublime, and smiles innocuous
The never or not, the overshot, the sight of green
Of red or blue, long overdue, blessed unseen.

Is the gift of Rome, monochrome, the trust of wood
In starry nights, fireflies, misunderstood
I think of haste, summertaste, or the blood of blind
Well whatever, yeah, whatever, nevermind.

About The Author

Santanu Dutta

Santanu used to make caricatures of his manager(s) on meeting note-pads while on con-calls. Later it dawned on him doodling and business consulting hardly gel right. Now he aspires to sketch stories, write comics and draw words. Yeah, in some order.

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