WOMEN OF THE LAND WHERE PAIN BLOOMS LIKE POPPY
Women, in war-torn lands, discover silent strength, rooting in darkness for new…
Read more →Widows in a sacred town silently stitch shrouds, their shattered dreams consumed by societal decay
Dawn with its scarlet pride
Shimmers in the fierce water
of the sacred river
with all its glory and myth
Morning breeze unfolds itself
like an eternal mantra in the spirit of hour
and evokes its own divinity
over this pilgrimage town
You come here to find
the eternal love
of Krishna for Radha
And instead in the cobweb
of its obscure streets
you find them
stripped bare of flickering grace
of their distant adolescent dreams
Betrayed by the sacred fire
they never rise like a phoenix
but shatter like the shadow of the dead
They carry other‘s darkness
and succumb in silence to the sorrow
of their own missing lives
These women in shrouds
the widows in this pilgrimage town
roam through its streets
miles away from their imagined home
and gather tears
to stitch their own shrouds
A shroud
A symbol of an amaranthine grief
and that of a maggot-eaten society
A society without glory
that grows on women’s corpses
its root wraps around
their disfigured dead hearts