By Satya Priya
At the trice of equinox
There's a conjecture of paradox
The culture's juncture just like an orthodox
Guilds her deeply as black as an ox
Skewing her directions with its tox
The white soul's besides all is in existence of a box
Whose motives still reside as kin as flox
Omnipresent and near to a phlox
Scrambling paramounts for the discern vox
She makes juxtaposing brew
And the culture exterminately apprise her as shrew
For she goes against their contemporary views
She hast own mind as its melancholic and propitious crew
In the juxtaposed gamble of external the thoughts initiated its inward sew
Since being puerile she had no bounties,so for now at society she phew!
Is it the mistakes of obliged or she was humanity's thew
Under which she finds her splendid lew
Oh! every time as crystalline as dew
The culture acknowledge her as Iconoclast
Little did they know her mind was blast
Every rock inside her running fast
Throwing themselves out as transverse waves from volcano burst oh such vast
Ubiquitous as in it lasts
Flying through the metagalactic's past
Every quondam once which was haywire now as if it basts
Each oasis each noesis nd the culture's dais
Caged her into extremities of bias
But the crumbling grass gave her all she now hast
Moving through the horizon her own moonlight now she casts
In the celestial world she hast now no gast.