Winter morning…
Sunrise…
Pale blue sky…
Smoke from the thatched houses…
The silent river… a solitary figure.
Alone, she stands
a pitcher in hand
facing the temple tower
thinking without words
of the one away on the Line-of-Control.
Tortured by memories
of the sweet nothings
and the midnight wrangles and wrestlings
where each lost but both won
there she is, a moving shadow.
Consumed by emotions innumerable
the newly-wed cries in secret
drying for her dawn
while the others are proud of their hero,
waiting for the next money order.