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25 posts
  • zeee_zephyrs 25w

    Thank you so much @mirakee for the honour.
    I'm very much grateful❤❤��
    My first POD also my 100th post!! yayy!!
    3.06.2021

    #writers #zeeCollection #zeee_fav
    WN♡

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    How Many Lives He Lives

    He talks to inanimate things
    maybe he lives in them.
    What the golden strings and white beds
    say above,
    he sings in his poesies.
    He paints his poetry
    from the shades of firmament
    and compares the love of two failed lovers
    to the horizon,
    where both seemed together
    but were never meant to be.

    He lives as silence
    in dark, dreary corners
    then dying in tumultuous chaos
    and next day,
    he narrates the tales he heard
    of dust capped childhood toys
    and of obscured cries of the housewife
    but they went unheard
    as everyone was busy contributing
    to the chaos
    louder than those sweetly harsh rhymes.

    He is alive in his own phrases,
    his words modulate the readers mind
    that sometimes it rains out of dolour,
    that smile is just a mask,
    that the Sun sets to weep
    under the shadow,
    as another day it failed to find its love
    and that someone became a selenophile
    'cause too much light blinded them
    and moon became the only hope
    in their dark world.

    So for every life the writer lived
    he must have died too
    then,
    how many times he died
    before dying as a writer
    to be a writer?

    /you have to die in them, to create a living poetry/
    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 26w

    #zeeCollection #zeee_fav
    #mdc
    @writersnetwork


    I'm not sure about the last para :(

    @writersbay thank you for the repost❤

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    Some days I am as Simple as Labyrinth

    Some days I'm the red hibiscus
    which blooms
    with the first rays of the Sun
    and on other
    I'm the same hibiscus
    but faded and shrivel.

    Some days, intentionally,
    I forget my etiquettes
    and sit with one leg over other
    bending my back,
    keeping the doors closed for the aunt
    with a big or rather sharp nose.

    Some days I'm the ebullient firmament
    whose every shade can fit
    into a perfect picture
    but sometimes
    I prefer to be a soft zephyr
    and turn into furious storms.

    Some days I am so silent
    that my presence
    can't be felt
    in the afternoon giggles
    but occupies maximum space
    In stygian corners.

    And maybe some day
    I may wish to be
    someone's childhood
    whose presence can't be felt
    but absence can make
    melancholy to pass by.
    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 26w

    #zeeCollection #zeee_fav
    #heritage #wod #pod
    @writersnetwork thanks a lot for the repost wn❤❤
    #WNrepost_Z (28.5.21)

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    The Heritage Which Knows No Boundary

    When it comes to Indian heritage
    Taj Mahal or Ajanta Caves is always
    on tip of the tongue
    next maybe the two epics
    but there's more to this subcontinent.
    We have a rich culture, everyone knows
    but only few can go beyond prestigious monuments
    and fewer beyond folk dances.
    Something whose limit is till infinity,
    where culture takes a new form
    with every next kilometre,
    is what makes it a rich diversity.
    May it be Bharatanatyam,
    or Manipuri
    or lavani, bihu, ghoomar
    these aren't just hand movements
    but are stories of our culture
    embellished with a colourful attire.
    From the line drawings of Mithila art
    to Puri's Jagannath Temple
    from the dancing girl of Mohenjodaro to Tanjore Art
    the number of tourists are evident
    for their stories
    or half story and half mystery,
    becoming famous worldwide.
    From namaskara
    to swastik
    and to keeping guests equivalent to God
    is what our traditions teach.
    Saree,
    common to most religions,
    adheres to the religious etiquette
    and is the harbinger
    of one of the oldest traditions.
    So, this is a heritage
    with plethora of shades
    which conflate various cultures,
    where bucolic streets
    bring us closer to our traditions,
    whose tales are beautiful with mysteries,
    which violate scientific laws
    and creates its own definition
    why?
    'cause it's India my dear
    whose freedom and heritage
    can't be defined within the boundaries of words.
    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 26w

    ALLITERATION - ZEPHYR

    As the aureate strings seem to ooze out from behind the mountain caps and not so frosty but feeble zephyrs move calmly through my finger gaps, I roll my hair into a bun and from my toolkit collect some words, make a garland of alliterations matching with the whispers of the zephyr and conceal it in my diary.

    PERSONIFICATION - SKY

    When the azure and amort firmament behind white beds turns red then blue and then moonlit, personification is in my toolkit for these, to personify them with the human nature of love, calmness and shining with scars.

    RHYMES - AVES

    There is a tall tree beside my house, the home of morning melodies, whose leaves dance to the chirping of birds. For me, they are my abode of blithe which bestrew sweetest euphony. I had secretly once woven rhymes under moonlight and now it's the time to enunciate it to the young birds and appreciate them for their first flight and to wish them luck for the horizon.

    FREE VERSE - FALLEN LEAVES

    The autumn season has arrived and the meadows look flaxen. The impuissant ochre leaves, which intended to make a free fall, now flow on the barque of zephyrs. I espy on that one leaf, who has yet not reach its destination. I sit down writing free verses for that free leaf who bid adieu to its home for its destiny.

    HYPERBOLE - THUNDERS

    Petrichor, as I said, now feels unpleasant because it often brings thunders with it. This aroma has again hit so, this time I would dip my poesies in heavy hyperboles and won't let windstorms leave them half broken as my heart.

    On weekends, I will take complete break on Saturdays and on Sundays I would inhume all my dolour to write sonnets to the artist whose hands govern the colours over his fingertips and create a scenery for each day.
    ©zeee_zephyrs

    @writersnetwork
    #tools #zeee_fav
    PC- me

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  • zeee_zephyrs 26w

    NOW PETRICHOR FEELS UNPLEASANT

    Herbs and shrubs
    seem more viridescent
    as if hit by ecstasy,
    greenery enliven
    in the sombre meadows
    as the weather wears
    the fragnance of petrichor.

    I always wonder,
    what evokes this aroma
    and I desire to store them
    in my perfume bottles.
    I try to enclose them in poesies
    with the scent of metaphors
    and from down the memory lane
    I collect my childhood petrichor stories
    and enunciate it to them.

    But it seems,
    they aren't good listeners
    and etiquette isn't in their behaviour.
    Because Petrichor
    is followed by stygian clouds,
    which even conceal the horizon,
    aureate sky descends to grey
    and seems hopeless.
    Winds rush,
    for an unknown destination
    and my poetries are flown away
    leaving behind harsh tales
    and dried ink.

    So next time,
    when the firmament is in strokes of grey
    I would rather write
    an ode to autumn or to spring
    'cause now,
    petrichor feels unpleasant.
    ©zeee_zephyrs


    @writersnetwork thanks for EC❤
    #imagery #zeeCollection #zeee_fav
    PC- me

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  • zeee_zephyrs 28w

    The sky is laden with clouds,
    an another cloudburst
    and I once again wish for a rainbow
    but the weather seems heavier
    than the wish.
    I loved drizzles
    until they turned into storms
    and these ghoulish, incessant clouds
    from an anonymous origin
    stays longer than the Sun
    and seems perennial.
    Months passed in these four falls
    the outer world is condensed
    in the window panel
    with a few sunsets seen.
    The umbrella doesn't seems enough,
    so I bring myself back to the casement.

    Some lost lives
    and many lost hearts
    but my eyes adhere
    to the senile tree
    whose ochre leaves departed
    while battling with the winds
    but it stood erect
    for the ones it still holds.
    It's a new day,
    a new hope
    but the same weather
    and the same wish.
    Maybe the rainbow forms
    on the other side
    where the Sun rise.
    ©zeee_zephyrs
    ___________________________

    Pc- me��

    @kin_jo @inked_selenophile @fromwitchpen @thelazymitochondrion ��
    #zeeCollection #zeee_fav

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  • zeee_zephyrs 33w

    Making our way across city chaos
    From rushed life to tranquil paths,
    when population density seems to decrease
    and serenity gets bestrewed in the winds,
    my coarse skin feels the felicity
    in the brisk weather of the suburbs.
    'And what about the fields and crops?
    How mud houses look?'
    My friend screams in between
    As I narrate further,
    Where erosion fails to make an existence
    and the rice fields wave a hello
    as they get drifted by the gentle winds,
    Farmers hold a curve of smile
    and melancholy seems to lost its way,
    I call it, the abode of ecstasy.
    From gravel roads
    we enter the narrow alleys.
    The bucolic houses are in the shades of yellow ochre
    and roofs are of brown,
    as we have the view
    of the most idyllic corners.
    'How is the view there?
    How does the morning feels?'
    My friend interrupts,
    And I continue with a sigh,
    the rays penetrate through the mist
    the sky descends to aureate,
    I feel the embrace of zephyr
    as I stand in the veranda.
    The mist clears,
    and the mountains make an impressive existence,
    hit by nostalgia,
    I remember my wish of climbing them
    for a panoramic view,
    My friend giggles.
    But deep within, I still hold the desire.
    A bell rang
    a peddler arrived from the other side
    I bought myself an ice cream
    and towards the fields, I went
    joining hands in front of the divine temple
    then through haystack and cowshed
    a scarecrow I met,
    with a better smile then it
    I reached verdant meadows
    beside a pond,
    I saw women in traditional costumes
    holding terracotta pots, heading home.
    I laid down on the mother earth
    gazed the amorphous clouds, finding patterns.
    'And where is this place located?'
    'In my heart.' I silently whispered.
    ©zeee_zephyrs


    Thanks from the depth of my heart to all those who left here beautiful and lovely comments. Tysm❤
    #picturec #zeeCollection #zeee_fav #writersbay #pod
    @writersbay @writersnetwork

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    Through the Village Alleys

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  • zeee_zephyrs 27w

    T H E E TE R N A L L O V E

    The Sun forms eternal strings
    of embers on blue beds,
    birds' silhouettes are visible
    over red, luminous clouds
    and on the bank of river Yamuna,
    over cliff top,
    sits a soft, blissful physique.
    Her hands move slowly through her bangs
    and feet dance over water splashes
    and her satin blue dress
    seems flowing with the breeze.

    Once Yamuna asked her-
    'Who makes you wait till the entire course
    of sunrise and sunset is over?'
    Her lips turned crescent
    with a tinge of shyness
    and replies with her eyes closed-

    'He stands in the shades of stygian clouds
    and as the chromatic rainbow,
    holds a dignified peacock feather over his head.
    His lips moving through the flute holes,
    seems magnificent
    and the dulcet melodies of his instrument
    as pious as river Ganga,
    breathe life into sullen winds,
    his lotus eyes
    always holds a wicked look.
    His yellow attire, brighter than the Sun's rays,
    carries a vehement divine aura.
    Whose euphonic tunes
    push us to oblivion and making us dance
    till millennium,
    is the one beside whom,
    I feel the epiphany of love.
    It's been long since I have seen him
    since I have heard him
    but this serene sunsets
    and the soft tunes of zephyr
    makes me feel his presence by my side.'
    ©zeee_zephyrs

    PC- Rightful owner
    #face #zeeCollection #zeee_fav
    @writersnetwork

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  • zeee_zephyrs 33w

    #memories #zeeCollection #zeee_fav
    wn thanks for editor's choice ♡

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    I Lost it to a Forgotten Place

    I walked down the memory lane
    of halcyon days
    'cause I thought it existed there
    but I lost it to dreams
    which I couldn't recall.

    Childhood,
    I lost it to effloresence of dahlias
    and I dare not touch them
    'cause they are no rose,
    my touch may make them bloom on spikes.
    They are the dahlias
    which danced in every season.

    Childhood,
    I lost it to my pillow houses
    and I dare not seek them there
    'cause my coarse hands would demolish them
    calling them amorphous.
    They are the well built houses
    which stood even after pillow fights.

    Childhood,
    I lost it to fascinating fairytales
    and I dare not listen them again
    'cause they will lose their significance
    with my sense of logics.
    They are alive in the lucent eyes
    and myriad smiles of fantasies.

    Childhood,
    I lost it to mellifluous poesies
    and I dare not read them again
    'cause I don't know,
    if I read it in annoyance or in blithe.
    One will espy the foolishness
    and other the chaste innocence.
    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 33w

    Women, especially housewifes are often treated as domestic objects.

    #ode #zeeCollection #zeee_fav
    wn thanks for editor's choice

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    Not Domestic, Maybe

    ~From the One Who Wrote the Ode~

    From this corner to that quarter,
    in yards long saree,
    Before the advent of the Sun
    and hours after dusk,
    the black and white checked apron
    your uniform for the whole day
    and knifes and pans
    your unadmired tools.
    Breathing betwixt tempering
    which we can't handle for seconds,
    cooking to everyone's desire
    this with no garlic, that with more red chilli
    and no one questioning your favourites.
    Cooking, washing, cleaning
    Washing, cleaning, cooking
    Cleaning, cooking, washing
    the only routine
    with grandmother's taunts
    NO
    mother-in-law's taunts.
    We have holidays
    to increase your work load,
    From ordering for a glass of water
    to stepping onto the mopped floor
    just increasing the burden
    and treating you as a mediocre
    but you keep us on top in your dulcet orisons.



    ~From the One to Whom the Ode is Written~

    Housewives
    you talk about,
    who have buried their desires
    beneath their red sindoor
    and you bury her
    in the boundaries of syllables.
    These days as a housewife, bloomed in her garden
    the day her father thought of her marriage
    and not for her further studies.
    She,
    not the housewife,
    the mother of the housewife
    who was blindfolded by patriarchy,
    couldn't dare to go against her husband.
    She,
    now the housewife,
    who was deprived of the right to think for herself
    now bury her desires beneath her saree.
    And you
    who have seen me as a housewife
    my life in a house,
    my journey from house to home
    and not the struggles before that,
    sit writing odes.
    And would you dare
    to read them aloud
    to me and to a HOUSEWIFE ?

    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 34w

    Hello��
    Will read you all soon♡

    #imemyselfc #writersbay #bagpack #zeeCollection #zeee_fav

    @poeticgirl cause you love skies.

    Here, sky signifies her home which is lost and she tries to find and reach there.

    maybe this makes sense :'(

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    In Search of her Lost Sky

    She holds a demure smile,
    a curve which often stays,
    and faints
    when the moon smiles.

    The aureate firmament,
    her most favoured abode
    which she desires to reach
    on the barque of zephyrs
    but bid adieu
    on the lap of hurricane.

    Betwixt the chaos of the city,
    she seeks tranquillity
    under the feeble rays of the Sun
    which is enshrouded
    by heavy, grey clouds.

    When the sky is painted
    in intricate strokes of pink,
    with amorphous clouds bestrewed,
    lasting ephermally,
    she stares at the horizon
    and the skylines,
    lamenting on her unaccomplished destination.

    The azure sky turns moonlit,
    the sleepless night feels eternal
    and the moon is concealed in clouds,
    she wishes
    from the fallen stars,
    to make all of them fall
    and collect them,
    to festoon her lost sky.
    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 35w

    B E A U T Y

    The sky surrounds in midnight blue blanket,
    Embellished with scars, the moon hangs gloomy
    And the morning rays sing orange sonnets,
    Glitters on scars, flaming fire, holds beauty.

    Took birth in the womb of black, gooey mud
    and dances with zephyr in a soft style.
    Other succoured the poor without a but
    gifting joys with beauty in wrinkled smile.

    The so called poet's eyes are beautiful
    whose pearl tears are lost in darkness of night
    Amass them in morning and use as fuel
    for rhymes, a beauty poem he then writes.

    Displaying the scars, burning with beauty
    Love is her, whose wrinkles are dignity
    ©zeee_zephyrs
    _____________________

    First time tried sonnet ��
    #beauty #zeeCollection #zeee_fav
    @writersnetwork

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    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 36w

    A World Without Books

    A world without books
    reminds me of my school trip
    to a nearby cave
    where we were shown cave paintings
    that took me back to the ancient epoch
    of our ancestors
    with no paper or ink
    but artwork,
    when stones were the pen
    and rock caves the paper
    with no letters or alphabets
    but symbols and pictorials.
    I read in my history book
    about the bronze age,
    the era of
    clay tablets and papyrus
    on which the characters were imprinted
    with sharp stylus.
    Parchments,
    do you know
    were made from animal membranes
    and manuscripts were written on palm leaves.

    Oh wait!
    Do you remember gurukuls
    of the vedic age,
    when the teacher and the disciples
    lived under the same roof
    and had a sacred relation.
    At those times
    books existed in memories
    and texts and vedas
    were learnt word by word through listening.

    So, a world without books
    is of rock paintings,
    of conveying through illustrations,
    of painting the emotions
    and learning through oral recitation.

    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 36w

    Blood Falls is an outflow of an iron oxide-tainted plume of saltwater, flowing from the tongue of Taylor Glacier onto the ice-covered surface of West Lake Bonney in the Taylor Valley of the McMurdo Dry Valleys in Victoria Land, East Antarctica.

    Unlike most Antarctic glaciers, the Taylor glacier is not frozen to the bedrock, probably because of the presence of salts concentrated by the crystallization of the ancient seawater imprisoned below it.
    source- wikipedia

    I personally love this❤ #zeee_fav
    #if #conceptc #zeeCollection #writersbay
    WN thanks for like and editor's choice❤

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    B L O O D F A L L S

    If liquid cascading from a cliff
    giving the colour blue
    it is called 'waterfalls'
    but I am named 'Blood falls'
    'cause I am red?
    water isn't blue.

    They say,
    I am rich in iron oxide
    so it appears red
    but they don't know
    the agonies which were concealed within
    were bleeding.

    A once alive poet
    died
    beneath the ice crystals
    with a heart
    full of cicatrix.

    They say,
    I am not frozen till the bedrock
    true, but not because of salts,
    the ice layers were impotent
    to froze all his sorrows.

    The so called 'Taylor Glacier' got a cut
    and everything is outflowing.
    According to science,
    I bear iron oxides and brine, not emotions
    but was science ever capable to detect it?

    Away from the worldly chaos
    in Antarctica,
    my red liquid
    was burbling in these silent icebergs
    and Science named me 'Blood falls'

    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 36w

    #journey #zeeCollection #writersnetwork #zeee_fav

    Whether it is success or failure, it is never constant, they will stay with you now but not always.
    We cannot define success but failures are another step towards it.
    WN❤

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    Another fly of Success

    .
    Sound of temple bells
    greet the dawn,
    the Sun embraces the azure sky
    with its golden rays
    and the sparrow wakes
    for an another fly,
    over lakes, bridges, grasslands
    and corn fields
    succeeding to descry some twigs
    Sailing on ocean of breeze
    with horizon being its
    unaccomplished harbour
    returns to her nest.

    Next day,
    the same scenarios
    but adverse winds,
    catastrophes,
    the nest is no more
    the twigs are scattered
    some flew with the winds
    the sparrow sits
    in the balcony
    failed to safeguard the nest
    gazing its broken home
    lamenting at the loss
    but its just a comma
    'cause an another fly of success
    is yet to happen.
    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 40w

    To My Muse

    Hey dear,
    The corner of my home still smells like you. Yes, the one from where you always crossed. The wooden table and the comfortable chair beside the arched window, the navy-blue curtains from where the crimson rays of the Sun try to pass through, the old expensive ornate vase with faded artificial flowers and the old turntable phonograph which once played our favourite music all lying on their respective positions but are void of your presence. The dead objects papitate for your essence.

    The reminiscences of those blissful instances always knocks whenever I cut across through the same narrow, quiet street which once never failed to make our each second a beautiful memory. The soft breeze, the faint rays, the chirping birds and the falling leaves always made a pleasing scenery in our moments.

    I am again in the same street, in the same room and in the same corner to find my lost smile. Sitting in the old chair, holding my pen, staring through the dusty window panel to find you knowing that the void of the corner cannot be infused with your joys but someday if you have to cross by this street and if I am still alive in your memories would you dare to come in and fill the void in the same corner which is half alive with my presence or will you not even give it a glance and leave it half dead.

    With love,
    Your love
    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 42w

    Februa- Latin word meaning to cleanse.

    @fromwitchpen Thank you for always encouraging.♡
    @inked_selenophile Thank you for all the love.♡

    #personify #zeee_ka_feb #zeeCollection #zeee_fav
    Thank you so much WN(5)❤ #WNrepost_Z
    09.02.2021

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    If I were February

    .
    If I were February
    I would februa
    the brume of winter
    And knock on the windows
    Of the residence of spring
    To make it wake.

    If I were February
    I would amass
    the spring scents
    To leave them near the daffodils
    And make them savvy
    of the spring's advent.

    And if I were February
    I would wait
    For the fourteenth day,
    And would propose
    The spring
    To be my valentine.
    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 44w

    #star #januaryjewels #zeee_fav

    Thank you WN (4)❤�� #WNrepost_Z
    23.01.2021

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    Faint tinges of pink, red, orange and yellow, make eye-catching graphics in the blue bed of white cloud pillows bestowing felicity to the eyes and reach the horizon. The Sun, the morning star, furnishes a heavenly tenderness in the hours of aureate sky.

    The vista of the Sun at dawn and dusk are homogeneous, with the similar sight of yellow, orange hues but the distinctness lies when the rising conceals the darkness and the other conceals itself down the night.

    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 45w

    The first two are tetractys( 1-2-3-4-10 syllable count)
    The third one is a haiku(5-7-5 syllable count)

    Blue, purple, black hues- describing night
    glories- here it is the stars and the moon

    #tetractys #haiku #zeemoon #writersnetwork #zeee_fav #januaryjewels
    WN thanks for♡
    Editor's choice! wow!❤

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    And
    With the
    Crepuscle
    at its extreme
    blue, purple, black hues drip down by degrees.

    To
    conceal
    the faint rays
    and to portray
    the glories of hours of voiceless darkness.

    Sky embellished by
    stars, glorified with glitters
    to welcome the moon.

    ©zaalima_zeee

  • zeee_zephyrs 53w

    UNHEARD SCREAMS OF POETRY

    A lot of poems written time and again
    Some I kept and some I effaced.
    The ones which can be manifested, I retained
    Rest in my dungeon, I secretly saved.
    Some I concealed inside the pages of my diary
    Because my toughest of emotions they carry.

    The voice of those unheard stories
    reverberate in those locked pages.
    The tears which I drop as words are drying, but alive
    Supressed beneath the dust cages.
    I sealed those gloomy emotions
    Froze those inked words in paper oceans.

    Some lines I gifted to the mother earth
    In my backyard soil, I buried.
    Sorry to put the burden of my thoughts on you
    and thank you for without any whine, you carried.
    Those are now my lost words,
    Which for me, the soil guards.
    ©Zaalima_zeee
    ___________________________
    Title suggested by @_shinzo
    P.C.- Rightful owner

    #poem #lostwords #diary #ZeeCollection #Readthisj #zeee_fav
    @writersnetwork

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    I don't know how and when I started writing
    What made me jot down my feelings.
    But I am happy that I write, it succours me a lot.
    It is an elixir to keep my wounds healing...








    ©zaalima_zeee