She was named after a flower,
a majestic blend of red and blue
wilted before she has a chance to bloom,
smothered by passion that she mistaken as love
her slender frame drowns in sorrow
when her lover boards the train to Moscow.
Destitute, she dances cheek to cheek
in houndstooth coat
and soft pale hands.
An outcast in her family,
shunned by the society,
she sits by the bookshelf
waiting for the song
playing on the gramophone.
A stranger knocks on her front door,
a replica of her lover with eyes
the color of thunderstorm
in a different soul.
He pays for a night's worth
to taste the flower
nestled in the midst of Shangrila
She stares into the mirror,
her majestic eyes glorified
when he sings her name in his breath
as the flower in his father's painting.
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