Like the dew she was here,
silent, sober with utmost care.
Many things she wanted to say,
which she kept for another day.
Some of them she often told,
and now etched in memoirs of gold.
Some she thought, some she wrote,
now in her diary stay as quote.
Of the thoughts that she have felt,
when before her 'Maker' she did knelt.
Such in her character was the art,
she remained a child always at heart.
Prasenjit©1997-2012
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