A year back or so, I had penned down these lines in my diary:

‘She was a woman who lived in a cottage by the hill,
Accompanied by a dog that never barked,
And a phone that never rang.

She was a woman who was ready to die
To have a single fresh rose,
Mysteriously appear on her grave every day.’


I don’t remember what I was thinking of then, but I have a habit of noting down my thoughts and then going back to them later on, in the hope of striking on an epiphany and transforming those lines into a poem or a story. But even a year later, I couldn’t think of any way so as to add to these particular lines, and so I showed them to my father (who by the way, is a really good writer himself – you can check his blog here). What followed is a poem which we both wrote together. In around an hour, he supplied me with two new stanzas, and then I added my own inputs, after which we sat and edited the whole thing.

Here is the final poem :

She was a woman who lived in a cottage by the hill,
Accompanied by a dog that never barked
And a shattered hourglass.

She was a woman ready
To die, without any wishes, save
To have a single fresh rose
Appear everyday on her grave.

But it would never be,
Of that she was certain
For there is no bigger burden
Than to outlive your loved ones.

The light in her sight long extinguished
Was in fact a boon.
For now she could roam the gardens of her past,
And relive her honeymoon.

The house that once was full
Of chaos and joy
From dawn to dark,
Now stood empty, with
Silence gone stale and
A dog refusing to bark.

The moon waxed and waned,
The present dissolved into the past.
And everyday without fail, she lay a fresh rose
On her own tombstone, hoping this time be the last.

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