The secrets of my heart are like water drops on a dark Japanese fan. Much as I want they won’t hide in the folds of time or fly, for the fear of failure. But sometimes, in the event of my forgetfulness, the wind will strum the fan and the drops will dance- unmindful of the fall. And in those musical moments, I will compose my song. ~Proma
Articles, Poetry and Short Stories by Proma Ray.