It was a room on the hilltop.
The architect got there, all the acoustics done,
but he kept a provision for a big window,
facing the chasm, in the crossing of two hill tops.
I had stopped wishing them on their birthdays,
my all dearones, all so loved to me.
It all used to feel so ironical, even of thinking about that,
Not a single one was left without deadly pain inside,
And I never saw them, cry in screams.
Last time when I look at myself in the mirror,
with all attention to my face.
My gosh, it had turned so cold, so white.
My grieving heart hadn't screamed for years.
So painstriken I was,
Didn't want anyone to have pity on me,
Few jealous ones, not to smile mockingly on me
And some with indifferent attitude,
didn't want to disturb their peace of life.
Just for all that, held my screams inside,
To freeze glaciers inside,
And visible over my face, to turn it, so cold, so white.
Enough was enough.
Felt for the need of a room on a hilltop, with all sound provision,
just according to my needs,
And when I would ever want my screams, to echo,
Hills would be there, to scream back with me.
Love to all, love to me.
Ritu Dimri Nautiyal
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