The Rustle of Leaves
Unfolding
its leaves
in you,
my daughter,
is
my history;
I am,
I know now,
my mother,
as you
are yours.
Unloyal Memory
Each time
I look back,
Open the locks
enter the room
clear the cobwebs
I see more
but
hold something less in my hands.
Follow Sukrita on Facebook here.