Mauve wanted to be a poet one day...

She'd written many poems all these years, but most had landed up in the dustbin or on the dusty street; torn in bits and pieces.

She even had a notebook where she had recorded some of her works. Now when she flips through the pages, tears gush down her tender cheeks. There are some moments , when we just want to cry. We don't know from where those tears are coming, seriously how can the body supply so much salty water .

The poem on the 69th page went like this :

8.4 : THE SAILOR

He sailed ,
As the day withdrew itself, as evening crept closer, as night took over,
He sailed.

He sailed,
As people wept, as people died, as they screamed in distress,
He sailed.

He sailed.
As Autumn came with falling brown leaves, as his hands kept getting feebler, his mind foggy,
He sailed.

He sailed.
Through the endless sea of grief; in a raft made of pain,
He sailed.

________________