SHE WAKES TO NO SUCH LUXURY a poem by Talzhemir She dreams of the time When her people were the lords of Bengla. Silk-clad. The owners of many Gaur-cattle. Running water in their marble homes. She wakes to no such luxury On the side of a road with no curb Dust-clad; the owner of one tattered dress She eats a piece of bread, and grass stems. Her belly is a hump, Holds a souvenir Of some suit-clad strangers Affection for one hour. This will be her third child. Each babe she bears Is the holy gift Of Sita, of Shasti and most-blessed Bhavani. Does she even know The town where she lives Has eight times too many people For surrounding lands to feed? Does it matter to her That this little one Will, most likely, not live past the age of five months? Yes, she knows. She knows, she knows, she knows. But she does it anyways, For it is the will of the Gods. By age 30, she will be far too old To sell her body to strangers To beg at the rail station. No one would hire her. If a son or daughter makes good, they may support her. Someday. Each little one Is a living lottery ticket. Sent to her by Kali The Conqueror of Time, The Goddess of Fertility, Death and Regeneration Even if they are only ever beggars, The more children she has, the more the burden of her care Shall be spread between them. When they die, she weeps, feels sorrow, like any other mother. But she knows that every child goes on to its next incarnation. Its a feeling she has inside, Thus she knows this to be true. Praised be the wisdom of the Gods. For perfect is all they have wrought.
Posted on: Sat, 15 Mar 2014 12:16:14 +0000
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