The scorching Sun upon my burnt-brain,
While I keep my gaze on the dry leaves,
I stumbled upon her imagination,
But amongst the things that kept her sane.
She doodles on her little notebook before her afternoon nap,
Keeping her tiny head and big hair on her grandma’s lap.
This is the time she dreams of fairies, dragons and little elves,
Her innocence keeps her pure and away from ‘us’, the toxic selves.
How did I come across her this ‘little treasure’?
I was only on a hunt for knowledge.
Shakespeare, Pamuk, Tagore seemed faded,
Far from reality,
When I dived into her World of fiction with great pleasure.