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THE TRANCE : SONNET 77

A first each time she comes and sits close by
Her delicate hand on my thigh at rest;
A last each time she says a piteous 'Bye' 
Taking her nestled head off my upper chest.
Her sojourn blossoms with delights of smile 
The like of beauty and lustre nowhere glitters,
Her charming voice none else would so beguile,
That her parting stirs up my woeful tears,
As I kiss her hand with a drop or two
Before she sinks into the unkind haze
With all the splendours of the Himalayan blue,
And from my forlorn soul and flooding eyes.
Ensnared by the trance of infatuation, 
I grope to mine the real from a thick illusion. 

-- N. P. SAMAL 

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