By-Sakshi Jain


The boy next door was crimson

The boy on the first bench from class, teal

The girl living next to the church was black

The one from camp was white,

They were chunks of look alike paintings

Faded, dark and tainted,


But their artist had a daunting jinx

You should all run the same race, he fixed,

One bright morning, he decided

Today, I execute my masterpiece, he sighted,


His deed failed to tempt his greed

All strokes of crimson, black and teal,

They were unique but crushed

You should all run the same race, was their curse,


Their maker was a product of prejudice

concealed destruction in his own eyes,

pass with flying colors, they said, but

He can't steal their wings and expect,

Either let them fly left and right

Or his masterpiece will never be alive!



This poem has been published in the book 'The Last Flower Of Spring'. Buy the paperback copy on Amazon:

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