The smoke falls to the ground
Shutters are pulled and locked
The rotten carcass gets washed
In the flood of unwanted rain;
Switching places to avoid itching
They squat like old monkeys
When the dirty priest shouts
The lines from moth eaten pages;
She sits silent with her veil pulled
Over her head hiding her face;
The hollow square of the bricks
Hold the fire as it escapes to
Reside in the irises of her eyes;
She is going to burn all the tales
Before the false gods who made
Her to sign the innocent oath;
Hair hangs loose behind her;
Nails are cut to open the flesh;
Impure blood is distributed to
Tiny hands that grip the feet to avoid
The shine of a promising moon;
The serpent sees through the cracks
Of the walls and wags its forked tongue
To draw blood between the robust
Thighs when she will be laid amidst
Flying of cinders on the river bed.
Do you here refer to Suttee, poet? a fine sketch of the woman put to death, no doubt.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very well written on Sathi...but that is all a century and more back...thank God...that is no more today....a touching poem