(The Other Half of Creation's mythical Tale, always above one and all, was always put down in one way or the other. The Spiritual Creator has been peremptory in doing this injustice, so did the historic saints and legends. The poem highlights another sequel of what could have been possible if stories were real and the characters were alive... who knew to speak and rebel the odds of their lives.)
Hail to Thee, O, Lord of Lords!
Greetings from this ordinary girl
Inefficient, Illiterate, Unproductive
In short, a wastage of Creator's efforts...
An irony addressed to the throned Creator,
Ferocious, motherly and 'dominating',
Who, in the hush-hush gossip, criticized,
Is the most unfortunate, stoned lady.
Hail to Thee, O, Habitual Hemp-Smoker!
The myths glorify Thy judgement
For Thou hast loped the head of ego,
To establish Thy supreme prophecy.
Was I anywhere, in all of this?
Did they narrate what I was feeling
In that crusade of emotions, utter dilemma
When, to double it up, came the roaring sea
And broke my belief, my faith and identity?
Hail to Thee, for all those miseries
Thy greatness is overwhelming my body
Where, with affection, I planted light,
Seeds of life, I mothered new saplings
Of sap and blood, flesh and bark...
Thy wrath killed all of them.
My children, burdened with duties
Were ruthlessly stolen away from me.
Hail to Thee, for Thy decease
You are honoured and worshipped for that, right?
And here I am, soiled in bonds
Of earthly strings, creating, preserving.
My devastating wrath, unwelcomed...
I am better when apprehensive,
Frail and silent, as you have expected,
So that Creators like you keep perishing my creation.
Hail to Thee, O, Mercifully Mighty...
I am an ordinary Mother of Mountains.
You are generous, You are Great
I am just another piece of reference,
At times violated, abused and then worshipped,
Censured in the ebb and flow of waves,
Forgotten, a faint fragrance, faded from roses
Surpassing my realms of real existence.
Hail to Thee, O Generous Ungenerous!
Gratitude... but I fear to be dethroned again
And slaughtered into pieces by taboos of faith
In a home, a mirage, I believe to be mine.
Would you give me a home that isn't mine?
I might be a nobody there, But I won't need that name
Tangled to Thine, when no soul can pray
Or respect, even when they chant those spells.
©® Subhajit Sanyal
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