The Mystery Woman Poem by Sumita Jetley

She came on a rainy, whispered breeze,
A suitcase in hand, a mystery with ease.
Landour's hills cradled her quiet quest,
Searching for something, her soul unrest.

Through misty woods, she wandered alone,
Until ruins of arches and pillars of stone
Called her forward, their silent plea,
A place forgotten by history's decree.

The wind swirled soft, a beckoning thread,
Her scarf pulled gently, where shadows tread.
A hum in the stone, alive yet still,
The pavilion breathed with its ancient will.

By night, she dreamt of spinning grace,
Arms outstretched in the sacred space.
Shadows swirled in rhythm divine,
Echoes of music, a memory's design.

By day, she sketched with a hand not her own,
Lines and patterns her mind hadn't sown.
Villagers whispered of magic untamed,
"The Whirling Pavilion, " fearfully named.

She rebuilt the arches, the pillars, the air,
Tools disappeared, yet stones moved with care.
The wind played its dance, a spiraling tune,
Guided by stars and whispers of moon.

When it stood complete, aglow with light,
She invited the villagers to spin through the night.
Hesitant steps turned to laughter, to tears,
Shedding burdens of shadowed fears.

But Ayra was gone when the sun next rose,
The path she walked—nobody knows.
Some say she's the wind, the light, the song,
A part of the pavilion where souls belong.

And on quiet nights, when the moon rides high,
The arches hum, the winds still sigh.
Step inside, spin, and you might just see—
The magic it holds, setting your spirit free.