Two hills and a valley in between, breasts
of her.
One hill gradually grows into a mountain
of oozing fountain,
bleeds from Cancer,
drifts the valley from the flow
of indifferent undercurrents. She is earth and
a woman at that, the
uneven hilly mountains are but tiny specks of
her huge body of landscape.
Bleeding’s been her
way of life,
integral from inception.
Indelible cuts crisscrossing
her brownish black
thickets of hair, her head
is axed from blades of
chemo currents.
Yet she survives,
survives from grit and fortitude,
to cope with hope, her
mantra of resilience.
Not always is death immortal.
Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh
Brindha’s blog 