Reincarnation – Suzanne Weyn

Being a reader in the 21st century burdens one with quite a lot of cynicism, for, if one devotes a considerable quantity of time to reading all the kinds of books there are and have been, it isn’t long before all the genres, plots and styles are traversed. The element of surprise being lost, anticipation dims; and one feels weary of reading the same phrases, descriptions and situations over and over again – and it begins to seem as though all those worlds which had seemed out-of-reach, have already been explored, and there remains nothing new to be seen. [Oh, how bleak the world seems, with these words!]

Having attained the aforementioned state, it came as a pleasant surprise, to find a story – a love story, at that, which did not seem cliche’d. Suzanne Weyn’s Reincarnation is a story about star-crossed lovers, but (before you accuse me of contradicting my own words) what sets it apart from the multitude of other such tales, is the unique style in which it is presented.

The book is about two lovers, caught in the cycle of death and rebirth, right from the beginning of time (The Stone Age, to be precise.) The novel does not contain one story; instead, it’s a series of stories following the lives of the protagonists, threaded together by the bond which spans across lifetimes (No,don’t worry,it actually isn’t as sugary as it sounds.) As they are born into different times and ages, in different races and civilizations, with different names and faces, the reader begins to see the patterns which define them as individuals – for instance, after a few rebirths, one can see that the heroine invariably has a melodious voice in each birth, while the hero has a talent for writing. The story presents quite an interesting challenge to the reader, to pick up the clues subtly sprinkled about – a story which asks you to use your grey cells to get your bearings, and not merely drift along.

All in all, the subject of reincarnation is shown very neatly; though the breaks in the story (whenever they die,before being reborn -_- ) may put off followers of pure romance. For those who’re tired of the usual, however, this would definitely make an interesting read.


Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder

A day dawns; just another day in a series of normal days, all blending into one another, with a thread of mundane reality binding them together. I yawn as I go through the motions of a normal human being; mechanically brushing my teeth, bathing, eating, walking, talking. Sometimes, somewhere during the course of the day, a thought occurs and fades away – a memory of what dreams had been, and a reminder of what they have become.
This day has begun, with another agenda, another deadline, another target to be reached. My life is purposeful, I have work, and I suppose I am happy. Shreeja tells me, ‘You don’t know how lucky you are! A successful job, a beautiful house and such a caring family! I would DIE to be in your place!’ I smile at her; and it is a smile partially in acknowledgement, and in inner amusement at her exaggerated way of talking. Sometimes, the thought strikes me that she is too frivolous for my taste, but I am bound by time – a friendship forged in kindergarten cannot be shaken off for a whim, just because a person has changed beyond recognition.
I’m in my room, when my grandmother comes in. Do you wonder if we are close? What is ‘closeness’, but a relative feeling of intimacy? I share my news with her, talking about the new project that’s coming up, about the book I’m reading, about the problems at work. Having held a high-profile job in the corporate world, she has always been highly ambitious for me. She is my mentor, and yet, my lips are sealed against the thoughts which occur randomly; abstract thoughts which do not need to be thought, which do not have any purpose, and thus, are unnecessary; and yet, those are to which my mind turns to, in times of leisure, when I sit talking with my mother.
Amma and I sit on the veranda, and I say thoughtfully, “Why do you think the sun sets in the west and rises in the east? Why couldn’t it have been the other way around?” She tells me, “Rules exist for a reason. What do you think would have been the state of the world, if that had still been under debate? Sometimes, the word why just causes trouble.” I look at her mischievous expression and burst out laughing – I know, that this is her way of alluding to my love of the realm of fantasy, that she accepts it, and yet, so cleverly brings me back to solid reality.
Another friend of mine, one Roy, tells me, “You always remind me of a dryad or a nymph, Pranati. If one catches you in an unguarded moment, that faraway look in your eyes makes one think of worlds far away from here; someplace where dreams are reality, an eternally unchanging world – where you can do anything you want.” I smile at him, and this is a smile of camaraderie, for Roy is a kindred spirit, a friend truly priceless – one who may not be there whenever I need him, but who shares all those thoughts which make me feel fey at times – thus, standing as a symbol of assurance that I am not all alone in thinking them.
The day passes away, and I find myself at home, being surprised by a party. It’s my twenty fifth birthday, and I spend it with them, overflowing with happiness at the thought of what I must mean to them; for, though one values oneself, the realization that one is loved, and for the right reasons, will always give joy. They are there – Shreeja, with the designer bag she thinks I will like; my neighbour Govind, with one of his beloved plants from his hothouse; my father, with a camera I had wanted for my previous birthday; my grandmother, with a book on time management which she thinks I need;my sister Preethi, with a copy of L.M Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables, which I’ve always wanted, but forgotten to buy; my mother, with a smile and a heart full of love, and Roy, who has come empty handed. I look at him questioningly.
‘Come with me.’
I follow him outside to the grove of trees where we used to play, as children. We sit down on the grass, and I’m wondering what‘s on his mind, wondering whether he’ll say it now, for we have never needed to acknowledge the bond between us. He speaks, and I find, in truth, that what was in my heart, is reflected in his; and though I have always known, it fills me with joy. I look at his dear face, and we smile at each other, with the full knowledge that love can be quiet, and deep, and unchanging – not like the crescendo of a wave to a height, which dies away; but like the ever-flowing, sweetly tinkling waters of a stream.
The day ends, and I find myself looking into the mirror. Twenty years ago, in a fire that burnt down our house, I suffered from severe burns. I look at the scars on my face, which have never healed, at the burns which make a wistful smile look sinister, and think of all those who love me so much, that they wouldn’t change any part of my appearance, including these scars, for they are a part of what I am.
They say beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. As I drift away to my beloved land of dreams, a fancy flies in and out again, that it is not an object which contains beauty, but the love in the eyes of those observing it, which gives rise to that feeling of admiration in their hearts.

Disclaimer : All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. -_-

Laughter – The Best Armour

Yes, I know I have departed from the conventional, with this title, but it seemed apt for the theme I’m going to expand upon. And forgive me, if I tend to sound a wee bit superior while holding forth about this; for, as anyone who’s well acquainted with me will vouchsafe, there’s rarely any situation which does not find me in stitches over something (or at times, over nothing at all), thus making me count myself as quite an expert on the subject.
[If you haven’t found anything ridiculous in the above declaration, your sense of humour needs medication. -_-]

Anyway. What is laughter supposed to guard one against, you ask? Well, chiefly, against all those minor irritants and annoyances one inevitably faces in life, not so serious by themselves – but invariably adding up to what everyone in this century suffers from – that never-decreasing plague called stress.

What is one supposed to laugh at, you ask? I think this is best summed up by Lizzy Bennet in Pride and Prejudice, when she says, “I hope I never ridicule what is wise and good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.” Remember this, my friends, remember this.

It does rankle, when laughter is used as a tool for belittling others, and rightly so. There are plenty of occasions wherein one can enjoy a good joke without making fun of someone else. For instance, while travelling today, I found my fellow commuter to be so sorely afflicted with sleepiness, that her head seemed to be in some danger of falling forward (or, to my greatest consternation, on to myself.) I spent the greater part of my journey watching its progress – I’m sure that every one of us has seen such a sight some time, to know what I’m talking about– and I admit, I couldn’t help but be affected by a strong desire to chuckle – whenever I expected her to fall, but she didn’t, righting herself at the last moment (Eliciting a sigh of relief from my side, each time.) But my laughter wasn’t ridiculing. I daresay I’d have laughed, if I’d seen myself in such a condition too.

What is the point of this monologue, you ask? (I realize I’ve taken a great liberty in answering questions which you may never have wanted answered. Bear with me.) It’s to impart the following message:
Laugh.Laugh.Laugh now.
Better that than to set aside time, stand in a circle and laugh over nothing in the years to come. -_-

In Search Of Magic

At the start, it seemed so simple,
All that which – unexplained, unknown,
Mysterious, strange and a riddle –
Was by the name of magic known.

The answer to questions galore,
Like – why are leaves shaped so?
Because they are pieces left o’er
From making clothes for fairy folk.

Then, it was easy to believe,
Guarding their secret gifts and art,
Those little people, so hard to perceive,
Could yet be seen, by chance or hazard.

Fairy, gnome, elf and dwarf
Made magic using spell and charm,
Mage, sorcerer, witch and wizard,
Ruled and dictated magical norm.

A change – then Muggle was I,
Magic became a defined science,
To remain unlearnt through toil of mine,
A knowledge – to be a longing hence.

Then, magic needed no word or wand,
Special powers were a given,
If a god was your dad,
And to non-demigods, magic forbidden.

And then, again, it seemed to change,
Till I knew not what to believe,
A plant in human camouflage,
Was a fairy – if Y changed to E.

It was all just myth, it seemed,
Magic was naught but science advanced,
And that unknown power demeaned,
Called fiction, coincidence and chance.

Wishful thinking, though it may seem,
I’ve never truly stopped believing,
That a talking beaver, or flying team,
May yet appear, to keep the faith thriving.

Written By:
Yours Truly.

Indolent Protest

I sit and wonder why my mother says,
‘Be truthful, kind and good always.’
When it seems that everybody tries
To convince me that easier is vice.

I sit and wonder why teachers taught
That morals were worthy; weakness to be fought
When it seems that the real world prefers
To treat them as tales for children’s ears.

I sit and wonder why those stories heard,
Spoke of truth triumphing all,
When it seems that the rest of the herd,
Have given up and let evil befall.

I sit and wonder why I sit and wonder,
What help will only thoughts render?
When it seems that the few who do think so
Do naught but quietly sit and mourn.

Written By-

Movie adaptation of a book – To watch or not to watch

SPOILER ALERT:This is a rant.

Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows Part II releases worldwide tomorrow. Everywhere I look, I see trivia about the movies, the actors, posters of Dan Radcliffe pointing a wand at me. I suppose this is as effective a way as any, to sensationalize an already- huge event, and I admit – I can’t help being a teeny-weeny bit affected by it either, but not fully. That’s because I made a promise to myself, after watching movie Number Five, never to watch a movie adapted from a book ever again.

Okay, now all those of you who love the movies can smoothen those ruffled feathers – I have nothing against the casting, the directors etc. Hell, I don’t even own Harry Potter, JKR does, and she doesn’t have a problem – so it seems valid to ask why I’m so bothered (If you’re asking me that, that is. -_-). It’s just – I’ve always found that, after having read a book so wholeheartedly, after the characters have solidified in one’s mind so much so as to seem real, it’s really hard to accept what’s shown, in good faith. And I totally understand the difficulty of directors – they have to edit scenes, else the movie will go on forever – but when they change parts of the original books, it really bugs me.
(In HP5, remember the last part in Dumbledore’s office? In the movie, Harry and Dumbledore are seated before each other –
Dumbledore: I know how you feel, Harry.
Harry: You have no idea how I feel.
Me: [Clutching my hair and screaming] What are you doing? Where is all the angst? )

But the converse is not true. You watch a movie, and then read the book it’s been adapted from, and you don’t really feel any loss. I watched The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, before I read the book, and I really loved the movie (William Moseley made Peter seem more caring than the books ever showed him to be.). But Prince Caspian (the movie) was disappointing (Caspian and Susan?), and so I didn’t watch The Dawn Treader at all.

Though, sometimes, I guess you can learn totally new things about a favourite book – perused a hundred times – which may have been overlooked before. We imagine the clothing, the surroundings, the situations and so on, but may not even have realised that we may not have got it right( The BBC adaptation of Mansfield Park – I had no idea gowns in the Regency period looked that way – always imagined ball gowns as shown in Disney princess movies -_- )

Never judge a book by its movie (I’m quoting J.W Eagan.). And never read a book and then watch its movie, if you like your imagination better. (I’m not quoting anyone, that I’m aware of -_-).

Anthony Horowitz – The Diamond Brothers

I recently read Anthony Horowitz’s Three of Diamonds, and as he seems to be known more for his Alex Rider series (which I haven’t read), I decided to write a review on his stories about the Diamond brothers(which I have).Tim Diamond (Real name: Herbert Timothy Simple) is the world’s worst detective at twenty-five, while his younger brother Nick, thirteen, solves what few cases come their way (And narrates the stories, making wisecracks on every other thing they come across, and mostly on his brother).

Suspense and thriller content-wise, the books are pretty good (I’m comparing with the Agatha Christie and Arthur Conan Doyle standard.) Murder is, of course, mostly the leitmotif – but even gruesome details are described in such a way as to never seem morbid. Mostly due to the sense of humor employed in the style of writing.

So, yeah, it’s the wit that sparkles through, which really made me like the books. Puns, double-entendre, witty one-liners, funny metaphors – the books are chock full of them. For example,

 My last client had asked me to find out who was stealing supplies from his glue factory, but he’d disappeared and I was beginning to think he must have come to a sticky end.

 Oh, and apparently they compare him to J.K Rowling. (Nah, she’s the best. -_-) Well, anyway they have a Chief Inspector called Snape, with an assistant called Boyle, who aren’t the villains, but aren’t their best friends either.(*rolling her eyes*) Perhaps this was more of the parodying that goes on in the rest of the books.

Basically, you keep chuckling throughout. (If you get the joke, that is.) Don’t get confused by the mixed reviews – these are nice books for light reading, and for laughs. Just read between the lines. (And the actual lines too.   -_-)

After Ten Years

I’m standing at the bus stop, and thinking about O.Henry’s short story – After Twenty Years.  The tale of two friends who plan to meet after twenty years at the same spot, seems significant to me right now, not because I’d made any such assignment myself, but because, through chance or coincidence, even I’m waiting right now for a friend – whom I haven’t met in the past ten years.

Of course, the cases aren’t the same (I’m not a much-sought-after criminal, thank you very much!), for social networking and the Web have not kept us so totally apart in the past ten years, but I still can’t contain my excitement. Probably, in our parent’s time, stuff like having a pen friend you knew nothing about, meeting a long lost acquaintance – were common, and the experiences seemed magical, adding that something of mystery and enchantment, always seen in books – to their mundane, daily routine, but which we don’t get to know. (Which our generation actually misses out on, ‘cause of the aforementioned – the WWW. But hey, I would never have gotten in touch with her without that, so I’m not complaining.)

I’m wondering how she’ll be now – probably quite different from when I’d known her (just as I’ve changed since she’d known me all those years ago), and it’s a bitter-sweet acceptance of reality – for I don’t want to let go of the memory in my mind – the memory of being “best friends”, of bonding together over a mutual love of Enid Blyton’s stories and of parties during summer vacations. And now, it will be a whole new friendship all over again, but that will have its own joys too, and I’m just glad to have known this happy twist of fate, which has given me a chance to go back to what I was ten years ago (Imagine me saying this in the same tone as – “Hundreds and hundreds of years ago…” ^_^) and relive all those childhood memories – for those carefree years were truly the best parts of life.

Eight Cousins – Louisa May Alcott

I first read Little Women when I was eleven. It was an abridged version, and the story seemed very pleasing to me, full of simple, joyous instances; funny, clean humour; and sensible, beautiful ideals which one would yearn to uphold and follow, so prettily expressed were they.
Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy became close friends, and being a bookworm, I naturally liked Jo the best.
As I grew up, I read the remaining books, the originals, and loved the characters even more, and longed to emulate them – for, which reader, wholly immersed in a book, can remain unaffected by the ideas expressed, which correspond to those thoughts in her own head, maybe unacknowledged, maybe silent, but there all the same?
I liked the simplicity of the storytelling, the portrayals which seemed so real, and the attractive description of such commonplace activities, which led the reader to appreciating her own blessings and living her own reality, instead of distracting the mind by making it long for worlds beyond reach.
Somehow, by chance or by negligence, I never got to read any other book by Louisa May Alcott for quite some time. Little Women is considered among one of the “classics” in most publishers’ lists, and so are the other books in the series, but I hadn’t come across any other work of hers.
Then by some good luck, I found the book Eight Cousins, and its sequel – Rose in Bloom. It seemed like a breath of fresh air, for I’d been immersed in fantasy and popular fiction for so long, that I was beginning to feel quite lost in all those illusions.
The books are about Rose, an orphan, who goes to live with her aunts and uncles, on the death of her father. She has seven boy cousins – a merry, youthful group, who call themselves “The Clan”, and take her into their fold, and help make her a healthy, happy child – under the eyes of her guardian, cheery, boyish Uncle Alec. The characters – Archie “The Chief”, responsible, kind and the oldest, Prince Charlie,charming and full of fun and frolic,Mac,the bookworm, Steve,the Dandy, Will and Geordie,the twin-like little soldiers and Jamie,the baby, make up the brood, along with sweet-voiced Phebe, the poor, orphaned maid who becomes a sister to Rose. And Rose herself –  sweet,generous hearted and strong minded, makes a lovely protagonist. The books follow the adventures they get into, as children; then the tribulations they face as they grow, finding just rewards at the end.
The characters are very likeable, and for those who love L.M Alcott’s writing, this will surely be a treasured read, regardless of whether the readers are young or old; for, though the books talk about children and their doings, there is so much good sense, such good advice spread through them, that I’m sure even “grown-ups” will love the books. 🙂

Sisterhood celebrated

Both born under the same star,
In mind twin-like, though years apart,
A closeness, which age couldn’t bar,
In truth sisters, but friends from the start.

Through years of bitter words and fights,
Quarrelling for petty ownership rights,
Through games of houses and schools and dolls,
Our laughter rang in our home’s halls.

When you were good, I was not,
In between our poor parents caught,
Among us, as far as they could see,
Only one good person there could be.

Memories of tales carried and told,
Memories of petty blackmail unfold.
Now friends, now foes, now uneasy truce,
Deals made, then broken, and hell let loose!

Yet, late at night, dreams did share
Hopes, secrets and fears laid bare,
Tears of joy and sorrow wept
On shoulders there, when most bereft.

Amidst strangers, with you beside
Courage to smile and keep head high
To have secret codes and jokes together
A companion rivalled by no other.

You, who were that troublesome brat,
Then sibling, rival and confidante,
With you, life seen at its best and worst,
Sister, yes, but best friend first. 🙂

–  Me 🙂

Around the world..

Travel. I’m going to pontificate on this subject now, and being neither a seasoned    globe-trotter nor a cosmopolite, my meagre knowledge only allows me to hold forth  on my feelings and opinions, based on my experiences, and does not extend to  useful information. You have been warned.

Captured in a pocket of time, when the real world one lives in seems far away, with  the knowledge that the present is temporary and the only constant being  movement. The feeling of momentarily having been dropped into another’s life, when so many small details and thoughts are brought to one’s notice, which are otherwise lost in the hectic humdrum of daily life, which make us think, wonder and grow.

The widening of horizons, meeting new people, learning something new – a respite from one’s life, needed to rejuvenate interest in the same. A fleeting feeling of time unmoving, of senses overloaded with sensation, and experiences stuffed into a small, immeasurable bit of time, which seems a gift to be cherished, for all the good memories it leaves, and the lessons it teaches. Haven’t you felt it too?

Whenever you begin – at dawn, or at dusk, at the end of a week or the start of vacation – haven’t you felt that spark of anticipation, excitement, at the beginning of a holiday, buoyed up by the hope of good things to come? On foot, by air, by sea or by land; by ship, by plane, by bus or by tram – doesn’t a journey seem so much more pleasant than the destination?

“I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake.The great affair is to move.” said Robert Louis Stevenson.

I agree.
(Isn’t that just so condescending of me? ;D Like it matters if I do or not!)


In manner, a caterpillar born,
Gobbled up knowledge like food,
Saw the world, new things did learn,
More than (for sanity) was good.

Curiosity may not have killed the cat,
But had certainly created a cynic,
Knowing all, yet knew not that,
Wisdom, before time, is catastrophic.

Content, with what seemed ample reason,
Blocked new thoughts, barred variation.
Did oppose all hints of moving forward,
In a chrysalis dwelled, mind focussed inward.

Cocooned, a shell of preconception,
A coil of one’s own making.
Logic clouded, biased opinion,
Oblivious of the harm resulting.

And soon darkness did oppress,
Life – a cage encased in black,
Chained by shadows of hope suppressed,
In despair of finding minds alike.

For, so long lost in one’s own world,
The way to the surface forgotten,
Doomed to endure pain, blindness unfurled,
In a closed mind, of ill- formed notions.

To break free of exile, self-imposed,
Strove so hard for the answer- disclosed
At last, when the mind learnt to be open,
Accepted change, the only state eternal.

Then out did fly, into the world,
The world in turn, embraced.
The past, a merciful blur,
Reawakened, to a new existence.

– Me -_-

College Memories

Out of school, and on to work,
In between which cannot be shirked
College- that professional mentor,
Spewing experts- left,right and centre.

A crowd of many castes and races,
United defying the administration,
Then strangers, now all well-known faces
Spectators,but imparting life’s lessons.

A time of growing up – abating,
Once bliss, once dull, once seems heralding
That day, at last ,when we’ll gain control,
And be sober, adult and rational.

For now together, by laughs bonded,
Due to scatter, as life’s decided,
But preserved forever, in the heart’s gallery,
To be cherished always, as a sweet memory.  ^_^


Georgette Heyer

Sometime back, when I was searching for good books to read, I came across some reviews of Georgette Heyer’s  novels, and full of the Regency craze around that time, I decided to give it a try.

Georgette Heyer was a writer of historical fiction – basically in the romance and mystery genres (Yeah, I know you’d have got this from Wikipedia too) .Her books mostly deal with the descriptions of lives of the gentry and nobility in Regency England. The language used is a bit difficult to follow, if you aren’t used to the expressions used in those times(like I was),the descriptions get tedious and the stories themselves need adjusting to, for only when you wade through a page or two can you understand who the characters are, and even then maybe not clearly.

After reading all that negative criticism, if you’re still reading this review, then you may as well join the ranks of Georgette Heyer fans. For all that’s needed is persistence. The first book of her’s I read, was Arabella ( fortunately, for like all others I too, fall for first impressions, and some other book may have put me off). I found the protagonist ( Arabella, duh) quite fascinating, though my initial impression was that of a birdwitted beauty – _- .

Mind you, I’ve only been reading her romances, for I tried a mystery – Cousin Kate – and found it too monotonous to credit the genre( I’m an ardent fan of Agatha Christie and Arthur Conan Doyle ,is that a sufficient excuse? ), but what I’ve read, I really liked. The Masqueradors, These Old Shades, Devil’s Cub, Sylvester, The Corinthian, The Nonesuch , The Unknown Ajax, The Grand Sophy, Frederica, Friday’s Child, The Talisman Ring, Lady Of Quality, Sprig Muslin, April Lady and The Reluctant Widow are some of my favourites – with intelligent characters, very humorous situations and happy endings ( What more could an aspiring romance want?) . The heroes are manly, the heroines feminine, everyone has sense, and some of the plots are truly masterpieces. The Masqueradors, especially, is an amazing story about a brother and sister who pretend to be each other (i.e a sister and brother) which I strongly recommend you to start off with.

Georgette has a sense of humour which leaves you in stitches, reading the reactions and dialogues of her characters. Altogether a very enjoyable read.

Teenage Woes

Lost in the pleasant world of dreams,
I’m brought to harsh reality,
I open my eyes and before me, see
A girl sitting, weeping quietly.

Wondering how she got in, I –
Place my hand on her shoulder.
Startled, she lifts her head high,
Shit! It’s me when I was younger!

How am I here, I think wildly,
Has my sanity broken apart?
Is she the Ghost of my Diwali
Past – Scrooge’s Ghost’s counterpart?

I see she knows me not, so
I ask her, “Why d’you cry so hard?
Have you lost someone you know
Or did someone break your heart?”

“Oh, my troubles are so many,”
She cries, tears flowing freely,
“My parents don’t understand me,
And my sister drives me crazy!”

Surprised now, I stare at her,
She seems to me hysteric,
I reflect back – When I was her,
Was I really this melodramatic?

Then I think – She’s in her teens,
Her emotions going haywire,
“It’s not as bad as it seems”,
I say, just to pacify her.

“You don’t  know half about it”,
She cries, “You adults are all the same,
Acting so smug and despotic,
Just ‘coz you’ve passed my age!”

She remains weeping, I drift away,
For I find I’m only a spirit,
Helplessly, I remember wasted days,
For which others deserve no credit.

Now I wake in truth to see,
My sister ranting before me,
About the unfairness of life,
How she stirs no one’s empathy.

And foolishly I tell her,
“You’ll be okay, it’s temporary,
They do like you, never fear,
So quit feeling solitary.”

But she shouts, “You know nothing –
Of what I feel; stop advising,
Just because you’ve passed my age,
Doesn’t mean you are all-knowing!”

I shrug and leave her to her gloom,
Imagined despair and misery,
Maybe those with nothing to mourn,
So spend ages, eyes teary.

Written By: