Tracing yellow lines
On broad banyan leaves
Winding the fragile thread
Round and round...
My thoughts
Vagrant butterflies
Take flight...
Savitri…
Constant wife
Faithful lover
Woman of power
You conquered death
Yet…
Your womb was too narrow
It could only hold
A hundred sons
Not a single daughter…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Stunning blow to the greatness attached to Savitri in mythology for rescuing her husband from the clutches of Yama(the God of death) and conceiving 100 sons thereafter after getting a boon but failing to either demanding one daughter in boon or giving birth to one. A deep thought provoking issue raised through this poem. Thanks for sharing.10 points.