MATHURA

I was pinned down, and watched in terror
As the great wooden shaft inched closer;
The man who held it in his hand, leering,
As he trimmed my flower, his shaft searing
My lips, burning the skin which held my
Flower close, my face no longer dry.

I whine in fear at his hardhearted cruelty
And squirm beneath his massive, sweaty body;
The odour of liquor overpowering, intoxicating,
Mixed with the putrid smell of smoke, choking
My throat, my breath weary from the weight
Of the man upon me, whom I hate.

My mouth opens and shuts like that of a fish;
Silently, tacitly, I acknowledge his force
As he eats the cherry upon my breast, I wish
Only for death to be upon me to cleanse
My being, and wash away the filthy white matter,
That courses through me, sowing those unwanted seeds.

All the world watches on, praising the giant
Whose wretched hands rest upon my breast:
"She is not virtuous like the simple Sita;
And hardly fierce like the mighty Durga;
She speaks not against the ugly, forceful brute -
Her pleasure is clear, and that is the truth."