Virgin Mother Poem by Boudhayan Mukherjee

I saw her begging in a local train
fourteen-year old mother, clutching
her baby in close embrace,
eye-lids closing in exhaustion.
She had no vermilion kissing her
dull hairs, no bangle or mangalsutra.
Love was a trick to make her a fool, drip
her virgin blood to flourish a wild oat.
The dark tan of her honest nipples
I could discern through tattered blouse
turning sad when menfolk ogled;
I know,
they now thrive in the dew of her child's tears.
She couldn't throw the life away
for if she did the earth would
be swept by dark shadows
and my heart turn into a thorny panicle.
Time cried in despair
when she stood before me
for a coin.