Her footsteps were soft, like a
     dove she moved, her tiny rosy lips
     blushed  the setting crimson sun.
     She loved  teddy bear,  happily
     chewed cream filled  chocolates ,
     she was fond of skipping, tried at
     singing,painting and even chatting.
     Like  every parent her parents had
     a dream,she was a bright student to
     her teachers.
     She grew up, blossomed like a lily.
     she even had a few boy friends, they
     envied each other to draw her
     attention. She was a dear cute
     darling.She also had a dream, to be
     known, to be appreciated, to be
     loved,to be treated as some one
     special.She tried hard to woo
     praise,unhindered attention.

       Every thing was smooth,one day
     she had a headache she was taken to
     the doctor, there it was diagnosed
     as malignant tumour in the brain.
     Despite her parents trying hard
     she knew that. She would imagine
     she was under  sedation, etherised,
     some time afterwards she  would wake
     up,she was then  but a whited
     sepulchre of herself.She dreaded
     the day, yet valiantly fought to
     forget the invincible.
          At the school annual day she
     was adjudged the best student,she
     stood first in the class, she
     excelled in music and painting,
     she was the best orator. A local
     news magazine featured her in their
     Sunday cover page. She kept the
     paper under  her mattress.
     Stealthily she read that and smiled
     to her.
          A few days after she was taken
     to the hospital,bravely faced and
     waged  a calm battle,but succumbed.
           Her tiny shape was covered
     with a white sheet,beneath that
     slept a dream that withered young.
     Upon the sheet red petals spoke of
     the dread  that destiny is,
     unreachable, unfathomable, cruel.

   ( This is the story of a young girl who died of cancer,
      she had a wish,    to be known, to see her photograph
     in a magazine, a few days befor  her  death a local
     newsmagazine  honoured her wish, her parents named
     her Itishree,  the honourable end, which she emulated
     in her short    life. Despite myself words failed me,
     blandness overpowered my    grandiose. Visitation
     of the unknown dries up the tender and winged
     curiousity disallows the glib. This post was there
     in my  i’land  for   sometime, but inadvertently
     it was deleted , one of my friends asked   me to
     repost.  I  wish no itishrees  to be met in
    our life time, but Itishrees are there and will be
    there to numb us , captivate.)