Here’s a bouquet of 31 poems from 24 poets from various parts of India and a lone poem from Poland. We have two poems by some poets. There were no prompts or last dates, no set rules either. This anthology just happened with all the poets rushing their poems within a few hours. A Different Truths exclusive. 

#1. Oh Woman …

Let’s celebrate the power of women
The life giver of man
So far, she has been given
No place in the society
She was supposed to be in the kitchen whole day
Cooking cleaning and washing
Bringing up her children
To the best of her ability and the income her man provides
Many a night she goes to bed with hunger after feeding her family with love
Yet she is abused and beaten
Not taken care of!
Today her life is changed
She is also a bread winner
More than her husband
She runs the home and office and commands respect from all!
She multi tasks
Home and office and kids
And her parents and in laws
Without an eyebrow raised!
She wears modern clothes and moves around with high officials and takes decisions
She makes sure the underpaid in the office are given a better income as she knows how a home is run!
She is now an all in all
She does online transactions and is very self-confident unlike before!
Let’s give an applause to this wonderful creation of God Almighty without whom the world would not move!
Oh women! We salute you!

Sarala Balachandran, Kolkata, India

#2. Woman

Everyone thought that I am a breeze
Flowing gently over hills and vales,
Regaling all those who come my way,
Revitalizing those whose heart ails.

Air, that I am, I have various shapes
And the tender breeze was just one form;
When time summons me to rise,
My own strength I outperform.

Stronger and stronger I blow and blow
Stirring all those who come my way;
Affection does win me over anytime
But arrogance makes me harder sway.

The more the hostility, the more my outburst,
My anger then assumes the form of tempest;
Crushing everything that comes in my path,
Submerging the vast cities and the forests…

I am a woman
The way you perceive me, a reflection you shall see;
If you love and admire me, I shall be a gentle breeze,
If you downcast me, I shall rise like a phoenix!

Neelam Saxena Chandra, Pune, India

#3. Diamonds!

Men may think it’s a woman’s last resort
Little do they know what stern clay
the apparently weaker sex is made of,
The essential condensed emotion squeezed out
Of those limpid pools of nectar is pure holy water
No crocodile is ever acquainted with its potency
The first freshly squashed drop of virginal dew
Hovering inside the kohl lined eyelids

The doe timidly fluttering her eyelashes
is no simpering baby doll
She is trying very hard to keep her liquid gold safely inside
Willing desperately to stop it from spilling on terra firma
Hearts that are statues of smoking stone
Impervious to shows of such wimpish emotional outbursts
Men roll their eyes, turn away and exclaim, ‘not again!’

It’s not a weapon, it’s not a ruse
It’s the violated 10-year-old’s suppressed sobs
It’s the abused wife’s black and blue welts
It’s the war widow’s bucketful
It’s the grief crazed mother’s dead son

It’s the end of the tether
It’s the height of a trauma
It’s the bursting of a rain suffused cloud
It’s the crashing of a crescendo
It’s a woman’s tear drop

Lily Swarn, Chandigarh, India

#4. Just When

Just when you were sad and didn’t know why.
Just when after a hectic day you wanted down to lie.
Just when your heart was broken, and you wanted to cry.
That’s when I held your hand and told you to try.

Just when it was dark, and you were looking for light.
Just when you were confused and wanted to fight.
Just when you were in a spot too tight.
That’s when I guided you to the path right.

Just when you lost hope and didn’t want the waves to ride.
Just when you should have a little bit more tried.
Just when you were hurt that others had lied.
That’s when I your mother gave you strength by being at your side.

Dr. Paramita Mukherjee Mullick, Mumbai, India

#5. Wantonness

Take your once slender arms now sinewed with grit,
Toughened from responsibility, monotony and dulled wit,
Worry not beauteous one to drape the stole, just sit,
Catch your breath, your bosom heaves, they’ll anyway call it “tit”!

Creation sublime, eye candy now for eyes that once suckled,
From a mother’s breasts, that spilt love engorged in pain, they nestled,
But the vision changes with age as a waist of lust, its desire buckled,
Every son forgets the milk of life that once trickled!

It’s alright enchanting woman let the cleavage show,
It’s not your fault, inadvertently you reveal in innocence you know,
You will be blamed anyway, for demure and coy is how they made you grow,
Behind those breasts a sea of agony gushes in your woe!

Let the sculptor chisel the stone away as atonement,
And make a goddess out of what he saw as a dirty dream inclement,
You will be worshipped by demons and gods in a golden firmament,
It’s ok to let that drape slide down bewitching one let remorse slowly ferment.

You will blossom like that tree a girl, a maiden, a woman,
Leave your she child behind and there will be men and men,
Worry not, what goes around comes around and every father will say “ amen”,
When he prays that his girl child be protected from a poisonous stamen!

Grieve not beloved angel as you cover your womanhood,
The cold wintry winds will ever blow frissons from the dark woods,
As you walk on cinders of anguish, rise like a Phoenix as you should,
Your stole speaks for itself, oh woman you’re the best , not just good!

Lusty eyes will ever trespass your sacredness,
What triggers perversity is not your brazenness,
Walk with your chin up, square your shoulders in boldness,
Let all stoles drift with winds, liberated in wantonness.

Geethanjali Dilip, Salem, India

#6. Priceless!

Sad, but true,
How many years do
You women actually live?
Or grow up to believe
That you are living!
Giving up yourselves,
For all, but yourself.
Living for your children,
For the men and women,
Who aspire for and acquire
All that you bear,
Keep on giving,
Selflessly granting
All your years,
Left with neither
You nor yourself,
Not a thought for thyself.
Ageing but ageless,
Graceful and timeless,
You go on and on, tireless,
Full of divine brightness,
Brimming with non-ending kindness,
You are like a happy, addictive virus,
Woman, you are forever priceless!!

Madhumita Bhattacharjee Nayyar, Gurugram, India

#7. Confessions

You only have evil in you.
Pure evil.
Remember
– she will never allow
such treatment again.
Your hands will not reach her,
words will not hurt her.
– I did not want to.
It happened by accident.

– Silence!
She is still healing accidental blows,
and confessions of hate ring in the ears.

Eliza Segiet, Krakow Poland

Translated by Artur Komoter

#8. Her World

Chirps sang welcome notes with her birth,
Giggles loud filled the entire universe with mirth,
Jingles rang when she walked to sway with pride,
Apple of the eye is a girl of every home world-wide,

Daughter as a blessing always on top in education,
Broadened shoulder of father with her submission,
Mother shared her friendship without hesitation,
Her presence coloured the walls with all emotions.

She has the power to change lives,
Energy to achieve goals are her smiles,
Confidence with her support is precious,
Forms many she played to rise.

Tears of hers may stop tides of ocean,
Prayers of her reach the sky seventh,
Mountains will move if she intend,
Blessing is she, to mankind from heaven.

Let us celebrate this divine human’s arrival,
Let us cherish the womanhood around like a carnival,
Daughter, sister, wife, friend and mother carry a veil,
Of divine love to colour lives in universe to prevail.

Farhana Sait, Chennai, India

#9. The Hunt

I remember the past of wild hunts
when it was too easy to escape,
when the holy basil surrounded
the memories of many,
when I fiddled with my own map.

Dogged ways, the delirium lost,
the fits unclasped with mores frost.
I intertwine: the mere shadow dons swift rays,
the rusty rivers rise on the clay-hays.
The ruined reasons and the fatigued frowns
chew charcoal-cheers and leave us like clowns!

This creeping claustrophobic culmination
Flooded, still roll on to be parked,
Though skidding the ear-marked destination,
The fuss goes on like this for pseudo style.

Running to pacify each other
In everything- chimera and sludge;
Our hunt is for what
When all will flutter like a feather!

Saumya Rajan, Pune, India

#10. Game of Rice or Dice

Room teeming with inquisitive eyes.
Courtyard swarming with lustful breath
Bride’s house of honour.
Taught never to dishonour.

The pride of the newlywed bride
Scattered on the floor,
A tiny pot full of rice.
Or is it the dice?

Game of dice or rice?
How does it matter?
She had to play it thrice.
Scattered by the groom,
Will be amassed by the bride.

Sitting impassive on the jute mat?
Is it her newlywed groom,
Her lover or another Arjuna
Or is she in the effect
of ritualistic marijuana.

Was she a bait?
Her in-laws are used to win lost lands?
What if she deliberately lost in the bet?
Will she be ceremoniously raped in the bed?

Strands of rice were lost in the sea of subjugation
Pangs of mirth mixed with condemnation,
Censured the air with liable guilt
“Where are you? My saviour, my love?”

There, with bowed head, Arjuna stands compliant
She smiled, even in humiliation.
Sighing softly with the realisation
“My love, your promises are all but disillusion .”

Now, Krishna, you saved Draupadi so many times.
But left unanswered those millions
That abandoned all shred of pride
In their fight for the rights

Burning in the pyre of confrontation.
Suffocated by the air of oppression.
With the hope that their Krishna is yet to come,
Thus their faith in liberation still stands firm.

Gopa Bhattacharjee, Kolkata, India

#11. I am this Woman

I am this woman
Who smiles through dried tears
Who sings when she’s defying
Whose guilt is past tense now
Whose cooking reeks of indulgence
And whose nights are starry screens!

I am this woman
Who knows it’s a hungry night
Who comforts her two babies
Who tells them happy stories
Whose work-worn hands need rest
And whose eyes are blazing dreams!

I am this woman
Who rides into the midnight
Who stops for no girl nor man
Who takes her own load easy
Whose life she daily carves out
And whose mind is her own domain!

I am this woman
Brave, dreamy and free!
I am her, I am she.

Nilakshi Roy, Mumbai, India

#12. I am Special

I am special, they say
yet ironically!
I am killed in my mother’s womb
even before I was born.
I am a boundless ocean that charters its own boundaries
yet the world condemns me for my independence.
I am a candle illuminating a home
yet burnt for dowry,
to appease avaricious people.
I am a soul that reflects quintessential love
yet maligned and defamed
for giving birth to a baby girl.
I am a gargantuan mountain,
standing tall – braving all odds.
I am victimised and persecuted
for remarrying as a widow.
I am treated inferior to my brothers
who are pampered and forgiven.
Men demand respect from me
without reciprocating the same.
The scars on my face cry out
the trauma I suffered when my face was disfigured.
My fault? I refused to submit to a man’s obsessive lust.
Fingers point at me
accusing me of wrongs I didn’t commit.
I am used as a scapegoat so that
a man could be shielded for his villainy.
Double standards thrust upon me
so that I could be subjugated and marginalised.
But enough of it!
I believe my body may be mutilated
my heart broken
yet my soul will never be crushed.
I will live on for years to come.
I am a survivor.
I am not weak.
I need respect.
I seek justice.
I am capable.
I don’t need a crutch.
I can walk the talk.
I have what it takes.
I am empowered.
I am special.

Vandita Dharni, Chandigarh, India

#13. I Need Just a Moment

I need just a moment
To be an ocean or a river
To bear or hear
To be a sky or the Sun
To be a Devi from a woman
I bleed; love and Springs
That sprouts wings

I need just a moment
to be a banyan tree
To be a bride or an alphabet
For I can conceive kidney or heart
The progeny
Of civilisation
Still you doubt!
I am Malala or a farmer
In the Cockpit or a war-widow
a blatant willow
that never bow
to your glass ceiling

You saw my breasts, thighs and curves
Beyond that is my zone
My fidelity; my crown
I am the rice bowl
that feeds even in hunger
I know each footstep
Awake or asleep
I just need a moment
For I am a woman …
A hash tag on your heart.

Swapna Behera, Bhubaneshwar, Odisha

#14. She Paints Life!

She paints Life.
Like on an amorphous canvas.
blending and merging galore of colours…

She picks a colour of ardour…
from the highs and lows, ups and downs;
of the paths, each day she goes through.

She chooses few hues of love…
by meeting people, known and unknown;
some bonds and ties, few gables of truth and lies.

She draws the colours of joy…
often from the lyrics in the beaming verses;
a lustrous choreography to gleam the moments.

She picks the shades of strength…
from the acquiescence that grief is a quiet feeling,
omnipresent and ever stalking.

She sorts the sheen of composure…
from the moments of pain and gains;
that eventually become memories, never to be abandoned.

She blends the pigment of belief…
from the Life itself, even though she knows
glee and gloom are the two sides of this coin.

She stirs hues of hope and faith…
from the laughter and tears;
that finally become the colours in her platter.

The chaotic and charismatic colours
to splatter on the blank canvas
called Life.

Monika Ajay Kaul, Mumbai, India

#15. Do I Have to Prove Me?

Whether,
I have excelled in my margin or not?
Everyone judged me by my looks,
Ever imagined, apart from a thing of grace,
Or isolating me from the stamp?
Lady with smiling brace,
I belong to a humane race,
I am my own, my priority is not my dress,
My dreams, my vision is similar to virile quest,
I don’t want to remain in veil,
Drape myself in blanket of traditionalist gel,
Or gather a certificate of good adding to my concept,
In order to prove my best,
My wings flutter to rise high, higher than the sky,
Wish to land in Moon,
Safely, securely, then I will give the message of solace,
To all my friends.
A lady is safely landed without much help,
Earth and its domain will surely receive me with honour,
After all, am I not their Mother, Sister, Spouse or Daughter?
The adorable wedge in this hemisphere,
Consider me with faith and love,
I will prove myself best like the Sun.

Lopamudra Mishra, Bhubaneshwar, Odisha

#16. Feel my Love …

Centuries ago…
I crossed the lines
Lost my wings
Queens flight
Was in a desperate plight.

Even after ages…
I see before me
Lines of inequalities
Indignities, Inequities
A poignant image of passing time.

Let me cross the lines
To walk on the parallel lines
To let you know
I am your mother

Sister, daughter
your life-partner
A co-traveller
A radiant flower
in the garden of the creator.

Sprinkle me with dew to grow
Help me create a heaven to glow
Feel my love never to fade
Listen to my music that never to end.

(Poet’s note: Woman till today is not considered an entity
in her own right in many parts of the world. Her
story of woe never ends.)

Rajashree Mohapatra, Bhubaneshwar, Odisha

#17. On the Road

Somewhere along the road,
Knowingly
Dreams got crushed,
A vagabond
A Traveller
Got settled.
A friend turned to a parent,
A girl turned to a woman.
Unchained,
Ideas hovered,
Life questioned.
Shedding the veil,
Hit the road,
Living, breathing,
Freedom revisited life.
Back on the road.

Rashmi Malapur Jaswal, Mumbai, India

#18. Metamorphosis

I often wonder
How it would be
To metamorphose into a man.
Teeter, stumble in my pencil heels,
And then tumble
Straight into being a man.
Walk flat-footed
On the balustrade,
With nary a care under the sun.

To pee in an arc,
To curse loudly,
To smell from the armpits,
To launch into the streets in a vest
As if on a catwalk.

I would grow hair
All over,
Watch the frolicking growth
Of hirsuteness,
And yet be nonchalant
Over my baldness;
Leave towels and
Cigarette-stubs around,
To induce madness
In the silly women-folk.

Then I think.

That in the race to park the car,
Get the meat,
Jostle at the hospice
For our sick parents,
We all teeter
On the brink of the precipice.

At the end of the day
We all burn, burn, burn.

That in this potassium-chlorate-
Sulphuric-acid-dipped
Existence of ours,
We all struggle.
Man. Woman.
Human.

Mandakini Bhattacherya, Kolkata, India

#19. Womanhood, a Blessing

A world in the absence of woman
Is a desert sans sand.
A bare face of earth without her
Appears to be a man without his soul.

Her inexistence in the universe
Would be like a wordless book.
Her presence bestows and sustains the
Continuity of the uniqueness of life.

Termination in evolution can occur
With the disappearance of womankind.
The diminished balance on this land
Can call for annihilation of humankind.

Womanhood is a blessing
To be nurtured and
Cherished with utmost dignity
And equality at every step.

Rumpa Ray-Ghosh, Mumbai, India

#20. The Woman in Me

When I was asked
why I was born
in to the morn
it looked back at me
hiding in me
in its sunshine
shining at me
in squinted eyes
shielding its eyes
hidden in its smile
as the skies clouded, clouding in its smile
hiding in it, its puckered smile
I know not why I was born
I am just a cloud in a cloud
I hide in my smile
my smile!

Nutan Sarawagi, Mumbai, India

#21. The Witch of the Banyan Tree

Lady in red under the banyan tree,
I used to meet her daily when I was three…
She would feed me with her hand,
and would tie my lose hair band…

The village thought of me as a prey,
to the witch who was ugly and grey…
But to be true, there was no such beauty and grace,
which I felt in her caring embrace…

I recall how she cried under smiles,
but was tied to those few miles…
I missed her endearing words while sleeping,
and every night looked out to find her peeping…

Villagers thought she ate flesh and drank blood,
but my eyes could only see her as a wilted bud…
Whenever I asked father, who was she,
He would end up explaining by beating me…

I still managed to steal some time with her,
why in the world, I felt love from her…
As if she breathed to give me breaths,
to untie my knotted threads…

Now, I know when I see this picture,
my wound has just lost its suture…
My mother was treated as outlander,
left to the banyan tree spread, to wander…

She was burnt down with the tree when I was six,
her charred body was suspected as one of her tricks…
Standing for a girl, she slayed her life,
why was I born to her, why was I alive…

I never played with another girl,
as they all went down into the channel’s swirl…
Had it not been her letter to the state,
I would have been torn out of fate…

She gets torched every time a girl is dead,
she is still burning in me, all done and said…
She managed to save one, still helpless she stands,
can you hear the cries, can you hear the wails of infinite infants?

Poet’s Note: The poem depicts a true story from a remote village of India where progressive women are termed witches and baby girls are thrown down the drains. Here, one was saved because of intervention of her mother. We are talking of women empowerment, celebrating Women’s Day and somewhere baby girls still don’t see the light of the day.

Rajul Tiwari, New Delhi, India

#22. She

Story then leans forward to foretell,
The mere glimpse promised to rewind,
The ways divided to consummate skill,
when her own mirror betrayed the fulsome glance.
This seldom reached its desired Camelot,
She now daringly sits with no edge to let.

The Mirror muzzles
the picture it presents,
She no more pretends.
Often, she sees
the picture inside her,
The razor removes,
the character evolves her.

The stigma of fragile once annexed,
crumbles down with fever,
The strife subsided,
She, that raising-river.

She now doesn’t mess with
the gears she has got,
The stockades still little,
She plays with fiddle.

Her picture altered today,
with the time on the fore,
She sparkles with sun,
and bolts with balance,
She offers beyond more!

Saumya Rajan, Pune, India

#23. Silenced

I have been defeating
The hailstorms
Arising from the bosom
Before they reach
The boundaries
And break them into pieces.

I turn them inward,
Bury for hibernation
And convert into words.

Come, now, you can see yourself
Silenced in them.

Tejaswini Patil, Islampur, India

#24. Façade

Yesterday
she met
with the past.

She was hoping
that she was gone into oblivion.
Now she knows that she will not be silent.
Those days still entice.

On a short, one-way
—like life—street
she wanted to see an old house
with a wall that was marked
by her love.

Someone was renovating the façade.
He painted over the signs
and shouted from above:

do not worry, it’ll be fine!

The same words she has heard before,
but
this voice sounded different:

do not worry, it’ll be fine.

On the wall
of a townhouse without a future
there was no more sign of time.

On a short, one-way
— like life—street
one can paint over words,

but there is no paint
for erasing memory.

Eliza Segiet, Krakow, Poland

(Translated by Artur Komoter)

#25. Love Divine…

Softer than the moonlight
Cooler and spotless
Just a drop of water
Fell on the earth
Watering the seeds
Unsprouted
Without love!
My teardrops
Full of love n compassion
Helped the seeds to sprout
And grow into a
Mighty tree
Which bore many fruits
Of love and passion!
Just few teardrops
Fallen from my heart!
Amazing!
All what we need is love
To shine and grow!
The pure and divine love
From the innermost heart
Of ours!

Sarala Balachandran, Kolkata, India

#26. Woman…

Yes, I can be Sati,
I can be Sita too!
But only and only if I want to be,
Not when you dictate the terms to me!
And why should you?
You do not own me…
For I am my own master you see,
Uniquely created by the creator,
Not to be shackled,
Nor fettered
By you or your societal norms,
Problems! You are welcome to stay with them,
Ah! Let me tell you that I have problems too,
Problems with the way you look at me,
Drool and salivate at my physique,
I have a problem when you have a problem with my mini skirt,
Or my drinks; or even if I at times flirt!
If you are free to do as you will,
Do not you see that so am I!
Being a woman does not make me any less,
In fact, I am much more,
Much more than just this body, the boobs or vagina,
I am the woman who has stepped forward,
Reached the moon and the stars,
I am the queen who creates and can also destroy,
Remember, I am the mother who brings you forth into this world,
So, let me be, just let me be,
Do not penetrate deep into me, do not hurt me more,
Lest I pick up the cudgels for myself
And you are then transformed into dust, just mere dust!

Madhumita Bhattacharjee Nayyar, Gurugram, India

#27. Malati

I look at you Malati
Toiling everyday
You walk across fields
At the crack of dawn
And take the train
To reach the city
To start you toil
An hour here
Two hours there
You work your way
Everyday
Just to give your money away
To your drunken husband
Who then beats you
Black and blue
And tells you.
That you are lesser?

But why do you believe him, Malati?
Month after month
Year after year
When you bring the bread back home
Don’t you know
You rule him…
And He owes you,
If nothing else
Then, Respect…

You are the Queen
In your home
As You should be
Since You shoulder responsibility …

Let No One ever tell you
That you are less
Or secondary…

Rise Malati
And tell all those around you
That without you
Your Man is incomplete…
That you are an equal
And more

No more will you be
A pawn in the game
A gender subservient…

Celebrate your sweat today
Your toil
Your hard work
Celebrate yourself Malati
For You matter the most
And You are Goddess
The Wife
The Mother
The provider
The contributor
Building towards
An equal society
Evolving Humanity.

Poet’s Note: Dedicated to our rural women who toil and work hard in other people’s homes or fields and partake in the responsibility of feeding their family, their efforts often go unrecognised. And they themselves are not aware of the power they could wield

Ipsita Ganguli, Kolkata, India

#28. You are …

Question of equality
Is still a mirage
A clear vision needed
To bring a change.

You are strong
Alert and aware
Fight for oppression
Embedded in society unaware.

You are women
Never emulate men
Accept the challenge of life
In a evolved world to shine.

Maintain the required balance
In your desires and duties
You are fearless, fight every odd
Like swift flowing streams.

Don’t let your gender
To define who you should be
To rise above all
Just look before you leap.

Push the boundaries fearlessly
While striking the right balance
Remember, behind success stories

Super unsung heroes aspire…

Rajashree Mohapatra, Bhubaneshwar, India

#29. The Collage of Life

Daffodil smiles
penetrate the air
the old canvass of time
carved in mischievous mauve
swings from side to side
the ticking clock, the ennui
seems endless

The sickle, the scythe, the cider-pressor
the woman in her pinafore
in the orchard and vineyards
their weary smiles their trudging feet
ensnared in the bramble
beads glued to their forehead in the shinning sun

The winsome smiles that cajole
their women folk, the fishmonger’s
wife, the maiden florist, the typist
in her loathing chair in a banker’s firm
groaning and caring looking towards Sundays
to manage her estates
the Opera-singer even no less than the bar-maid
the many facets
Do you count their smiles their agonies?

Even the merry wife that
awaits her husband’s homecoming
or a maid with child in her womb
eagerly waiting the first flush of horror
or happiness at the bedside
waiting and watching her pensive man
as she goes into labour

The scantily clad bar-dancer
with a bottle of champagne
or a suitor with a stern and impressive
air about him measuring the probability
of affirmation …all these in the thick and thin
of life

The frail and the dainty ones
the chubby the cheeky ones
or a gaunt lean and stubborn
the substantial one
The Luna, Ceres, Persephone,
Cleopatra, the Juliet,
are tales told by man
of insurmountable pain defines
Women who begets generations of mankind.

Deeya Dey Bhattacharya, Kolkata, India

#30. Thicket

If I don’t flower this time over,
Nor bear fruits, my arms extended where song birds hover,
I’ve done so with a conscious conviction,
Gripping deep, pirouetting in a rooted resolution,
That I can love everything around me as my own,
My foliage the thicket of soothing shade where I’m sown,
That there’s no line, demarcation or divide where my love proliferates,
For in that embrace bliss inexplicable in a frisson liberates,
When you chance to look up as sunbeams filter through,
In tremulous delight I shudder letting flowering creepers on me that grew,
Smile at me for I’m in the act of doing what I do best,
I’m a woman complete within myself and in a unique love, my time I invest.

Geethanjali Dilip, Salem, India

#31. To Meera

Wake up Meera!
If someone sends you a basket
With cobra
And names it as a basket of flowers,
It won’t turn into a Krishna’s idol,
A cobra it shall remain!

Wake up Meera!
If you are delivered a cup of poison
Stating that it is nectar,
Even if you offer it to Krishna,
Poison it shall remain
And you shall die!

Wake up Meera!
If you jump in a river,
There shall be no Krishna
To make you float;
And drowning shall be your destiny!

Wake up Meera!
Learn to survive on your own!
Miracles don’t happen,
And no one comes to save anyone –
Seeing this ruthless, frigid and unsentimental world,
Even the Krishnas have disappeared;
You have to learn to swim
And cross oceans of life!

Neelam Saxena Chandra, Pune, India