Lifeless cry of a bleeding soul,
Endless beds of dancing ole.
Reds and blues and the sunset hues,
Guarding all, her faceless hands.

Sculpted in clay, her hands so cold.
Cloaked in haze, her heart of gold.
Veiled in malaise, her words of ode.
Lost in grey, our secrets so old.

Adrift, in the never-ending fields,
Of the enchanting pink Camellas.
Aloof, in the ever-lasting caress,
Of her endearing warm hands.

Hiding behind the bitter petals,
Of a painful false pretense.
Burdened by the belittling ache,
Of an ancient fairy tale.

On the face of the pink fields,
Through the haze of the sweet breeze.
Her hands heal the once lost and torn,
Bringing solace to the soul forlorn.

- Aadil Varsh