When the sun is up,

And the cool wind blow,

She wakes up in that morning, slow.

Her fair eyes search for light,

For she is in a cell alone, her oldest plight.

Wrongly accused of what she would never do inspite.

She speaks in her voice,

A hoary one,

To the best person she knows,

Second to none.

“Good morning”, she utters thus,

The walls, the earth unmoved,

The gods yet nonplussed.

She expects the world to revolt,

To understand and feel her sorrow,

Yet it remains just the same,

The present and the morrow.

She sits down on the cot and weep,

Full of wounds in her heart so deep.

Then, she feels a touch so soft,

Softer than the floor of her loft.

She turned behind with murderous eyes,

Where stood a dove,

After a perilous flight.

She casts aside all,

The jewels she withheld,

In that forever prison,

Of fear and solitude she held.

Her palm engulfs the dove so warm,

A life beating in her hands,

Sweet, serene, blissful and calm.

She feels a surge of hope and joy,

A will to jump to the moon and fly.

She brings it to the windowsill,

And feels the glow, of the morning sun.

Kindling in her that long lost thrill.

The dove soars high,

Higher, up in the sky,

And farther it went,

Farther than a mile,

Leaving behind a maiden,

With a smile.

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