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!
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This poem has been published in the book 'The Last Flower Of Spring'. Buy the paperback copy on Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/y9sydnxn