The porous moon on the
Ubiquitous sky of a placid evening
Reflects the pool of waters and
Madness in Durga’s eyes.
The autumn blooms in her skin
She is the magic birthed
By the sky and the earth – Kailash
Is sacred, monumental, nevertheless
The earth allures her to home
Durga is a name; an enigma
She is a purple caress to an avid desire
A longing that runs havoc in
The veins, a hashish of oblivion
– Every voice that rings through
– The sun, showers, hail and mist
– An occult that weaves magic
In sweat, through the thick and thin.
Bereaved wishes – violence and strife
Inequality, ignominy decors the forehead
Of Durga – raise your hands in praise
Futile prayers – Do you realise her?
She’s in extremity, in the song and
Celebration called life. Do not paint her
In evil colours, in nudity, in deflowering
In catastrophe – Can you realise her?
©Deeya Dey Bhattacharya
Photos from the Internet
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