By Sudeshna Rana
On a lonely night, A host of golden flowers fell into my hands. I buried my face in, The yellow rubbed onto my smile. Lips bloomed and skin hued: I looked across the camera phone. Moods saved in filtered clicks! While I played songs about lemon tarts And read daffodil poetry, Yellow taxis prowled my city streets. I am not a golden girl of the Twenties. So, don’t tell me about Flappers, Jazz and Fitzgerald; On a lonely night, like this; I am the Yellow girl, a century too young. All I long for are Van Gogh’s Sunflowers and Klimt’s Kisses! All I plan for are Breakfasts of egg yolk, butter and banana pies.
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