New Born

Baby

The pink slip is an end,
Two pink lines was a beginning,
Which trickled to a pink-patch chord
Cut from her bud, to usher
In first singularity – life.

And in that never-ending story
Of the most obsessive feeling, trapped,
Inside a palpitation-prone pink enclosure
A labyrinth of valves and vessels,
All in shades of pink,

Transforming the maternal science,
Of a pinkie held inside the tight grip
Of the tiniest palm,

To blossom a trans-generational memory
That is so indestructible,

Just like the pink panther,
– Stolen forever, in touch.

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