She dons some ordinary glasses,
And a unpigmented vizard,
Puts no efforts in performing extraordinary tasks,
And in between chores her fingers she clasps,
Like all pressure will be gone through that single snap,
All she does or exhibits is euphoric,
Even her pretty grimace,
Arched in her bench lowly,
And all those dull hand movements,
Primpingly hairs tied up tight roughly,
She ethically does romanticise life,
Even if it doesn't have enough of spice,
Cracks unfiltered jokes and glances for bribe,
It feels as her only way to survive in the tribe,
Still she feels deprived of,
Something that could suffice her,
What's it i don't have a faintest idea of,
What she desires of and what's it's price,
Still recall her eyes glinting in firelight,
And sagacity on her tongue,
Not let alone her Scarlett lips,
Unmatched firmness in her fingertips ,
Basically she is a cherobin from hell,
And from her voice that's all you can tell,
But i try to see through that terrible act,
That she has put on for no one to detach,
That she doesn't cries but laughs out loud in alone,
As all out here is gloom so she won't be forlorn,
If you ask what she vibes or feels like,
Then she's like the only handle of a door,
Only soft rag on the slippery floor,
She's the crystal flakes of winters,
And tiny blossoms of springs,
Craziest of the crime scenes,
But the best of sightseeings,
She's like a intense ball-room song,
Or the swiftest of party bombs,
Like Elizabeth Bennet of stories,
And bows after rainies,
But one of a kind,another you'll never find
- Surbhi, Bharati College
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