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Dibyasree Nandy

Fantasy

4.5  

Dibyasree Nandy

Fantasy

Lyra

Lyra

1 min
371



Hair as crimson as the dying embers in the hearth;

The golden harp’s chords throbbing with vitality, mirth;

Blushing roses; white and infantile red;

They snake up the lyre, the stems delightfully jade.

Folded silks trailing, sometimes magenta, sometimes blue;

Her damp fingers pluck; dawn’s dew;

A thicket; a grove; a clearing amidst;

Soothing melody, gloom’s fading cist.

From peach to sapphire, as the sky turns old;

Her notes become surer, bold;

Blessed by the Lyra, a voice of the minstrel from the silver heaven;

Leaves rustle, boughs sway, threads of her tune woven.

Upon a mound she reposes;

Larks hover, buds blossom, the refrain to her hymn closes;

Autumnal ditty, a new chorus;

Maples descend on to her lap, the mellowed dusky nimbus.

Harmony of the year late;

The breaths of spring and summer mate;

A lullaby sweet for the fledglings in the dark;

Soft flutters of eyelids beneath the lunar circular mark.


 



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