The Sage And The Spell Poem by Susanta Pattnayak

[A Saga of Menaka and Vishwamitra]

The moon dripped silver on the pool,
Where lotus sighed and waters cooled;
The night was silk, the air was wine,
And she — a flame in wet moonshine.

Her anklets murmured on the stone,
Each step a kiss the earth had known;
Her bare feet slid through rippling light,
Each toe a whisper, soft and white.

She came — her saree clinging thin,
Each breath unveiling dreams within;
The silk, once proud, now sighed to fall,
To kiss the curves that held the thrall.

The breeze, a thief with trembling hands,
Tugged loose her veil's modest bands;
It slipped — that caught upon her curve,
A sigh escaped the watching stars.

Her saree slid, a lover's tease,
Falling still lower with every breeze;
A shoulder bare, a trembling hip,
A gasp half-formed upon her lip.

Droplets clung to her shivering skin,
Mapped secret paths from chest to chin;
A single bead hung at her throat,
A kiss unsent, a lover's note.

Her hair, a wet and breathing tide,
Clung heavy to her gleaming side;
It framed her navel's secret gleam,
Where all the mortals forgot their dreams.

Her glance — suggestive, but knowing well,
The endless thirst her body spelled;
Her laughter, ripe with lush delight,
Promised both mercy — and the night.

She turned — the water kissed her thighs,
The moon lay broken in her eyes;
Each step a moan, each breath a song,
Each sigh a place where dreams belong.

The sages prayed to stone and sky,
But none could tear away their eye;
For in her sway, in flesh, in flame,
All scriptures crumbled, wept her name.

The sage, who carved his soul in prayer,
Felt every vow dissolve in air;
His beads fell silent from his hand,
Forgotten on the trembling land.

He rose — not saint, not god, but man,
Drawn helpless to her scented span;
Each step he took through the dreamy mist,
Was one more heaven he had missed.

Her smile, half-moon, half mortal sin,
Beckoned him closer, pulled him in;
Her saree trembled against her thighs,
As rivers burned in both their eyes.

The world spun slow — the stars withdrew,
As flesh remembered what was true;
In that one touch, that final sigh,
Even salvation learned to die.

She opened arms of mist and flame,
And called him softly by no name;
No heaven higher, no bond more sweet,
Than where her skin and his breath meet.


© Susanta Pattnayak