Comments about Yashraj Ingle
She was old and I was no older,
Twelve might be the age when I saw her,
Pink were her shoes and pink was her dress,
Pink were her gloves and my attire was a mess.
Her fair pretty face with blissful red cheeks,
Was such that a boy couldn’t forget for weeks.
Her hair tidy flew out from where the pink hat begun,
Were golden curls falling as glowing streams of the sun.
Holding a finger from her mother’s wrist,
She stepped towards me as a ship from the mist.
Blue were her eyes I saw when she gazed them into mine,
I saw the glimpse of innocence and a ...