"THE CYNOSURE" - (by Rahul Sharma)

...And that was she,
Who came into the scene,
Truly bizarre,
And people did stare.

None has seen her before
And she was extremely beautiful.
Her eyes were shining,
And her face was pale
Crimson red, were her lips,
And also had beautiful hair.
Probably at her late teens,
Anyway, was really fair.
The crazy youngsters did ogle
While the nutty oldies did askance;
But she did never seem to care,
And was in a little haste too.

Neither a muse,
Nor an angel;
But she was gorgeous,
And has already become the cynosure,
With her polite beauty that was hard to measure.
Her eyes were weeping
Her nose was reddening
And her face was crying.

For instance,
The crowd including me,
Did forget that, it was a funeral,
And the man lying dead,
Was a prominent stage actor.
But who was that?
The girl who wept,
people wondered
As their minds were swept!

"He was her patron..."
Said somebody from behind;
"No, she's his daughter
And never proclaimed..."
Said another voice.
"A flagrant actress,
Of early days, was her mother..."
Whispered a cranky fellow.

And that was his funeral,
People did never care for,
Deeply boasting,
Curiously gossipping.

But I did never feel,
Any resemblance for the beautiful girl,
With the dead man either.
"No Chance", uttered my mind.

The mortal of the great actor,
Was being showcased;
Photographers came along,
To make their frames with pride
And men and women came along
To pay their homage;
To take their last glance,
Some did simply stare
With neutral faces;
While  some bemoaned.
There the girl was sitting on a chair,
At some distance;
With her legs crisscrossed;
And her face within her hands, sobbing.

And an hour later,
There gathered,
The kith an kin,
Of the dead man.
And they took the body
To the funeral place.

And then, the girl was'nt found anywhere,
As if she disappeared into thin air
My eyes were searching for her everywhere,
Felt this was so unfair
And I found her nowhere.

And the question still remained,
About her, and her connection
With the dead septuagenarian actor,
Whose life was always a mystery,
And now he left the stage,
Leaving something at the proscenium...

The role of the man did end here,
Without an epilogue to clarify,
And none could guess anything as sure,
About the weeping girl,
Who became the cynosure,
At the funeral.

Life may make some twists,
Which could always freeze our mind;
The sun was about to set,
And the crowd is now dispersed.


- RAHUL SHARMA  (all rights reserved)