Prabhakar Subramaniam

This lullaby of the folk-singer

Sounding like a dirge

Speaks of the shadow

That stalks some, from the womb

Of births deemed inferior

Fates said to be inherited

Of temples which cannot be entered

Waters that are off limits

Of seeds not allowed to sprout

Plants culled when young

Of buds plucked before they flower

Sleepless nights

That dread the break of day

Of the wordless song

That brings the cattle home

Of the child who lifted

The veil off the world

And promised to come again.