By Pranjali Rai
Some beautiful stories have been written,
with every falling grains of sand.
I thought, I had tightly held your hand,
but it's the sand that slips out of my hand.
I am lying on the ground peacefully,
just like the flower petals that land gently,
even when the wind blows strongly.
But it's a dream that will break eventually.
Wandering in the crowd,
I want to be the same,
but no one called my name,
and I got stuck, alone in a maze.