At Khalighat, in the temple of the house for the dying
When the night has slept through its darkening.
And the tired watchman's watch wane.
At that ungodly hour she again kneels in pain.
I feel rain
I see a rainbow.
To me a butterfly is pretty too.
But I don't see it the way you do.
Lips smeared red, dark and swollen
Eyes shining black and bordered
Her hair held loosely by a pointed pin
A large red dot darkens her forehead
Knotted, gnarled, bruised and cut
Fingers missing and hands no better
Bandaged where raw, torn and sore,
These then are the hands of a leper.
No greater temple desecrated
No greater god mocked
When we in silence watched
A little life bled in the dust