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Wednesday, January 21, 2015

A Writer

Of years of solitude
And a final downpour,
Of dreams broken
And all the pieces ashore,
I wondered where went that river
Of all the possibilities.
The pen was lying dead
On a blank paper;
The ink overflown
Drenched my soul;
I wondered if I could ever make right
The massacre I left behind.
I wondered if I could
Ever do what's right.
They told me I was a writer
And that made my life.


  1. "And that made my life." Beautiful and soulful Sanhita! Keep writing!

    Someone is Special

  2. Love to read it, This article is very nice, I really enjoy, thanks for sharing useful information.
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  3. Totally pleasing to the eye! Thanks for sharing excellent information.
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