Through the clouded fog
You retreat from the street bazaar
To burrow inside a cottage,
A feeling that you’re under the terrain
Lost to the flesh and haunted by a haven’s
Carnal solitude. A fireplace summoning
You to be one with the earth
And the flow of bodies undulating
Like ocean beasts with froth
And growling monsters of the sea
And a voice of a woman crying out
Louder than a she-wolf

Crying “India, India”.
“My body of water, my body of water”

As fluid as the Sindhi, crashing to one rock
Knowing she will always be water
Even when broken, polluted, wasted
And even loved. And she can only quench the thirst
Of a man and keep his story alive.

And it is water and women
That make India what it is. A land of
Unparalleled beauty, of how a water princess
Flows through millions of lower-caste goddesses
Holding clay utensils, who bathe little children by-day
And let men drown in their water basins
In the drip through of the night.

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