Red Millets Poem by Neethu Prasanna

Red Millets


The lass tosses tum to bum in overjoy,
The spoon chases her, who runs in coy.

The rose skirt of millet pap is now free,
It spins and spills as she goes all spree

She danced before in a maroonish red mass,
Popping out from the kernel in the grass;

She was culled from the field for her delicacy,
As baby nerves sorb the essense, so racy

The red seeds were crushed to milk in rife,
With jaggery, boiled to next phase of its life;

She sits there thickened, gushing out steam,
Her life's purpose seems to near in gleam;

Any girl will resemble her in this process,
A girl starts with only naiveness to possess;

Gets plucked and moved to another pot,
Where her dance and pause come as a lot,

Feels drowsy as she learns that she carries
When innocence or ignorance still tarries;

She thickens in the swirl of duties and darbies
Forming into a lump, still good for her babies.