Sublime - Poem by Shreema Ningombam
She filled her pockets
With pebbles of life
Just to went down into the waiting river
Like she was going back to the deep tranquil womb
She made the breakfast for her daughters
Then came back to the kitchen
Just to put her head in the gas oven
Like the final retreat to maternal odour
She was the mistress of the World
One say 'they will eat her alive'
Of course she was eaten and left
Naked and coiled like a foetus
Women like they
Rebel with their broken hearts
Their rebel is mad as we say
For they come from their wrenched guts
Women like they
Are destined never to be loved
For they are to be made sacred
Has the sacred ever been loved?
Rinsed with unnamed anguish
Lathered with the purest betrayal
Washed with ethereal agony
Glowed with the dew of pangs
They became sublime
So sublime that they are
Forbidden to touch
Forbidden to love
Forbidden to rescue
They are goddess
Destined to stand alone
In a ere temple filled with pungent prayers
With its crumbling stone limbs
Who knows a goddess's loneliness?
Who knows her hunger for earthy love?
Who knows her yearning to be a simple woman?
Who knows the goddess too fears?
Who knows the stone too bleeds
Who knows the mute does speak
It is just you and I
Have no heart to feel
No ear to listen.
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