Mamma Will Never Know

Little Margot had traveled out of the womb of time.
She was displaced. Misplaced. Unplaced.
From the verge of the cliff of ice, she had managed to float.
Above existence.
Above herself.
She had crawled out of the womb of space.
Her sorrows and joys had married each other, and she pitied the anonymous state that was left behind.
How ruthless it seemed to live without a name!.
Trees were neither blank nor green.
It was neither dark nor light.
Neither Margot, nor not Margot.
Where was she?
Who was she?
What was she?
Some relations melted and some froze; and she really couldn't tell which ones she preferred more.
Letting go is not always a sign of strength.
Holding on and on is not always a sign of weakness.
As she had realised, we are all children of circumstances.
Lo! What she had been holding on to did not make sense to her when she was asleep, but was truer than her own existence when her eyelids arose.
Because it went beyond to a meadow strewn with grey violets.
Violets who had managed to trap their tears and give fragrance a chance.
Mamma will never know that her daughter was probably half insane.
Mamma will never know that flying not only gave her daughter wings but also cut off her threads of blood.
Mamma will never know, or probably never understand, that her daughter had lost her own self, had flown up to the kingdom of thunder and lightening, and was happily prancing around in the lashing rain of night.
Little Margot now slept under the waves of sand.
Mamma will never know.