There she sat, cloistered, in a silent corner,
With anthologies of what seemed like parables.
I narrowed my eyes from afar to catch a better glimpse of what she held in her palms,
For I stood at a spot sequestered for a prolonged time, so that she could not catch a sight of me.
She who sat cloistered, darted away to her mother who outcried her name.
With hushed, tender steps I plodded towards the anthologies.
As I laid my palms on the stiff, rigid cover and peculated a view of the shabby pages,
I realized that what she had been reading was not inclusive of even a tinge of my expectations!
One page with words so whimsical as though they were beckoning me to recklessly stray down the path to a pitfall.
Another page with words so wacky as though they were enticing me to softly fall for them and abruptly halt.
Yet another with words so authentic and cordial as though they were influencing me to contemplate them endlessly whilst I shamelessly yawn and sprawl.
And yet another with words so tragic and downcast as though they were imploring me to hysterically amble in the hall.
“What shall these be if not parables?” I questioned without any certainty of who I might be asking.
“A sheer means of escapism, if you will,” came the euphonious reply.
I gasped as I realized it was her!
She who had intrigued me to have a glance at the surreal anthologies.
She then spoke in her mellow voice,
“Often overlooked, underappreciated and ignored,
This piece of literature is a magical land you would not hesitate to explore.
With miscellaneous ingredients: Love, war, nature and despondency,
And the one and only proprietor of the hearts of lunatics…..is Poetry!”
~ Riddhi Chakraborty
Notes: This was written on World Poetry Day- 21st March 2021, a few months prior to my turning thirteen.
Swan's Labyrinth 