O lady, the lady in white—

your youth, a doodle,

virgin,

without the painter’s sight.

Days drift off the shore,

tomorrow turns to night—

dark,

darker without this light.

It comes to every flower,

arrives with equal right—

fading,

fading with each moonrise.

It falls behind desire,

drifting ever farther—

wasted,

wasted like a hollow clatter.

Your youth would widen

with the sky—

blue,

blue over the white.

Days would grow longer,

night would shrink—

still,

till stars return to light.

— Amit Choudhary, 2010