Wednesday, April 4, 2007
To Santa Fe (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)
A German professor wooed me
And said I could still do my creative writing work
If, and when, I married him.
I said 'Ja' and gave birth to five children,
And had no time to write.
I was forever changing napkins,
Applying creams on the baby's bottom,
Cooking meals for seven family members,
Washing the piles of cups and plates,
Forks, spoons, knives
Dusting the many windows of a three-storied house,
Feeding and nursing the small ones,
Praising and caressing the bigger ones.
It was a full time job.
I had snatches of thoughts for my writing.
But since I didn't have time to jot them down,
They evaporated into thin air.
Lost were my intellectual gems,
Between sunrise and sunset.
I became too tired of it all.
I was glad if I could get a good night's sleep.
Sleep, Nature's balm, soothed me to bear the hardships.
The family was too much with me.
One day I left for Santa Fe,
The one place where I felt free.
Free to think and sort out my thoughts,
And watch them grow in my laptop.