A photograph
To all the world,it was a photograph
to me, the lensman,it was beauty..
to her ,it was life...
A village
gal,
Her head
held low..
her
head glancing in doubt..
on a
weekday, wearing her school uniform,
carrying a basket of flowers
on her small head…
Shouting out her voice in the market
place
with her bag dangling by..
Her eyes scanning the deserted roads
with hope
Her eyes irradiating a dream..
Her soft voice invoking a sense of
pity..
my camera
clicked twice..
she looked
up alarmed into those lens..
eyes aghast
with shame which slowly turned lifeless..
A moment in time stood framed wit
light.
A gal
selling flowers,she made my photograph...
It was not the light nor the lens
nor me
But her eyes which told her story..
A dream of being a butterfly…
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