A Folklore From A Valley.

By Neoby B.Ponnachan

Through the yellow meadows , and

lavishly blushing evening's violet sky ,

unbothered in loosened locks

and coverd frail in her linen gown

with a never ending thirst in her heart , she

glided to, where the willow tree were farmed.

There she hoped to grasp a glimpse

of the one who quenched all her fails,

Hold his small rugged palm and gaze those lips

hidden in his bearded face that ever grinned .

Then to rest her strength into his arms

And be carried away a seventy furlong far .

In the holiest of holiest place of her heart

she consecrated him - a deity etched by grace

How divine was he to her that she dared not to touch,

despite his loving call with open arms

to swaddle her away to his farm,

a seventy furlong the meadows and willow's yard.

Poor dame, her feeble hands weren't

strengthened as might as her soul,

to bind him around her panting frame.

There she stood staring into his eyes

a million stars watched her by, and

after a little while it was his absence.

There she screamed the loudest cry-

the silence .

A folklore, A myth ,

Some says, she is still waiting

under the willow for a call ,

from the valley a seventy furlong far

away the meadows and willow's yard.

By Neoby B.Ponnachan