I see the river in her,
as she cuts deep
when she flows.
At times,
I see the hills in her, generous,
not a mountain's arrogance.
Often, she is the thunderstorm -
ostensibly angry,
but only cleansing the sky.
Who will ever know, but a few,
that she is also the soothing shower
of an impervious day.
And the time she is the mist,
she is only hiding
her friend from his own scars.
In all her seasons,
she weathers her own caprice,
to shadow the hidden truth -
a dark night
often hides
a sheltering sky.
(For Maayaa)
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