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Vermilion Hues

It was the festival of colors,

And she stood there,

Shy, Pink, Radiant,

A young bud,

Ready to blossom.

Little did she know,

Of those predator's eyes,

Eyeing her, Seething with lust,

His face, a Vermilion Hue.

He smiled,

His dirty yellow teeth,

Gleaming.

She cried in vain,

Her voice was muffled by the cacophony,

Of the oblivious crowd,

Cannabis-stricken.

She prayed to all the known gods,

Doubting their existence.

Whom she had offered prayers and rituals,

Through Saffron Clad brokers.


The pain increased,

Her eyes filled with Black.


Waiting for it,

Waiting for it to get over.

She crouched in the corner

Unable to move

There was a cold feeling,

Between her legs,

That, too, a vermilion hue.

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