Brindha’s blog

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

The quills were the pioneers
to print history through pages.
Then poured the ink from the
fountain and ballpoint pens
that expressed emotions;
dreams were chased and
destinies determined for many.

Love letters and answers to
questions; powerful questions to which
answers were sought
that saw empires
crumble like cookies;
hues of indigo winked predominantly
from initial ink, followed by
black, red, green, and pink.
The colors had different roles,
like characters in a play.

Pen and paper complemented well,
like bread and butter. Keyboards
were aliens; earth was still beautiful
when calligraphy danced
from sharp strokes and
emojis winked from ink.

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh