A mother is a bird,one that knows the clouds and the rain
A snow flake turning into a kiss,
A window with glass ceiling,
A white hard bread,
A wound no one talk about.
If a mother is a wound then
a daughter is a mucus spit,
A rash hidden by jewels,
A stillborn ambition,
A given away dice,
A scream straightened,
A dried up volcano.
If a daughter is a dried up volcano, then 
A poem is a defeated emperor's head hanging on a magnolia tree,
A worm receding into ball on your soft touch,
A pearl stitched on chest.
A field of grass where sun sleeps,
A baby wearing dictionary for coat,
A redemption of living dead.
If a poem is a redemption of living dead
Then death is the other half of a crescent moon,
A lily blooming in heart of winter,
A crushed mango twirling in soil,
A cup of warm water in brutal storm,
A hand holding you safe.
If death is a hand holding you safe,
Then you are a question,
A warning sign 
no one cares to look at.



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