Like the small flowers of green thick hills
With fragrance, did her words; bloom
Wild yet passionate in love, are the tribal’s
So was hers, for them and theirs
Sad was her heart, at the jungle’s ruin
Starved was her pen, of any words
To the children, she lent a voice, therein
To save the jungle, her poetry and birds
While planting seeds, with hope they croon
Cast your magic, of life, dearest monsoon
As the clouds poured, and lent some life
To life, the jungle sprang, and they all sang
Like the mother herself, she nursed and cared
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Days later, the deers came smiling
For lifetimes, shall the tribals sing, her praise
Her story of life, her pen; still flowing.
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