Deep cries and mourns, were what I could hear,
Drops of water were seen rolling down her cheeks, called tears.
She would sit near the window in her small room,
without a ripple, gazing blindly at the crescent white moon.
She brooded if she was borne to be derided,
to be brushed aside and ignored.
Her self-esteem had almost found way to its sepulchre.
While her self-confidence lay already dead in its grave.
For most of the time, she kept mum,
Fearing she would sound dumb.
She had no one to share her anguish and elation with, throughout her school life,
It seemed to her that it was the time when bad times were most rife.
*Am I too ugly to be talked to* asking herself,
She would underestimate the worth of oneself.
Ergo, delectation was a word, which could not be found in her dictionary,
The word printed on every leaf of her life was sheer melancholy.
