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May 2021

Six years ago, I met a doe-eyed Desi poet (who refused to call herself one then) on Instagram. When I scrolled through her posts, I noticed how passionate and considerate she was in voicing her thoughts with delicate words. And

The burning embers and the spitting flames, The falling flakes of the silvery remains. But if every cloud has a silver lining, However can I leave mine dying? So I built myself from the dusty cinders, Strand by strand from the scattered flinders. From the cold