© Amrutha T A


She is a withered champa

An unfurling saga

Halfway lost like a scarlet woman

In the garret of poesy.

Shed herself in my grandmother’s garden,

And spread herself a chalky aroma.

Hoary cobweb reached her hand in hand;

Loved as if they were one.

I like to compare her to a woman.

A woman among archetypes,

Living in an apocalyptic world

At war, in the battlefield.

The moment she struggles,

The moment she smiles winsomely,

They pluck her, crush her and squeeze her.

What an unfortunate fortune she is!



©Amrutha T A

Garlands were more enticing

Than the shyest birds,twittering

And the love she possessed,

The lust he craved.


Everything melts,melts,melts.

Everything burns among glaciers,

Reflecting wan smiles

When she was compelled to wear the red

Sanskari thread

And many-hued garlands,

They were fastening her multiple voices

Besides her neck,helpless sacred cow’s.

Laburnums on her head shed tears.

She breathed poison; they pierced her eyes

With swords of complaints.

Yearned for some water, my mouth,

Tasteless, it was, but of couth.

Days passed; so as clouds.

Once she bled, they locked her,

Somewhere else unknown to her.

Where are those garlands! Once divine,

But now, unfortunate epitome of impurity.

They were alone. A handful of rice,

A kerosene lamp, and many vulture eyes,

Staring at her bloody tender body.

She saw the fire of lust in jackals.

There were those garlands,

Pale, timid, and with bloody tints,

In the corner, speaking to muddy walls,

Alien! Alien! She whispered.