A SPRING TALE

It was for a brief moment of time. I don’t exactly remember what happened,

It was just yesterday I was sitting on the benches and desks, learning about my freedom,

Never noticed when those classrooms shrank and here I was in the isolated room,

Filled with eerie and solemn.


Was I too harsh? Was I too fragile?

What did they think I was in that red? A brick or a rose?

In case, they think of me as a brick, I hope they get smashed by me and my cold heart.

In case, they think of me as a rose, let my thorns tear them apart.

No one says that it’s easy to be fragile or even easier to be a cold-heart.

My mind has captivated myself into this learning to adjust to every situation for so long,

Then again I don’t remember myself having these thoughts gone.


The society asked me to.

I’m sorry Society, to make you feel embarrassed and look down on me.

I was in a state of trauma and vulnerability.

I believe that did let you find as good an excuse as me to survive.


Where was I? Ah- that room.

The window shows that there are flowers blooming in at the distance,

The leaves have turned green, I guess it is spring. The air is speaking to me.

Why in the corner of the room I sat? I ask myself.

To rest my back? Or just to find coziness?

Or is it just another excuse to survive this claustrophobia-c space.

Outside people think, that’s where I belong, where I must be seen,

In the pitch dark room of my life and a dry spring ray of hope within.


I remember last spring, I was out in the fields playing with my friends, and now they might be just somewhere sitting in their corner,

Looking outside the windows, remembering those days,

Waiting for the seasons to change away,

Somewhere in the heart they are crying to escape this cage,

“Oh! Dear lord of mine, please open these gates.”

If only they knew, the gates open to a haunt,

Of forever handcuffs and chains and bonds.


So, I would rather stay in the cage, writing letters for them,

Rather than weeping in the corner of a house, like maiden,

Cause these pen and pages will be stolen and let the ink be dry,

And the spring outdoors will have to bid me goodbye.


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