By Ramya Kalyan
Under the stars that whine my melancholies,
the frost gives me chills and hope.
Night’s crescent descends down,
brimming and dousing my hollowness with faith,
lightening the door to eternal bliss.
All alone I stand with a smutched silhouette,
loving the mum whispering lullabies in my ears,
saying, “your scars are an identity, and beautiful” …
Ramya Kalyan, from Tamil Nadu, India, calls herself “an ardent tyro at writing.“