Too Late Poem by Unnikrishnan Sivasankara Menon

‘Whore! ' he kicked her
As she lay on the kitchen floor
And he knew well that
She only whored him.

The child on her bosom
Whined and wept aloud.
'Tell me, who fathered
This vermin of yours' he said.
And he knew the butterfly
Was his own blood.

The noose of her torn sari
Held tight on her neck
The other half still tied
To the roof beam above.

Then it dawned on him
Like the rain that poured
Over the river outside-
She heard nothing he said
And will never again.

That morning too, she had
Handed him some money
Left from her wages and said,
'Have tea and go to work! '
That morning too, he had
Ended up in the arrack shop.
Now he was back right from there
Hungry and his pockets empty.

A stone he picked up
And aimed at the sinner.
As the child cried again
he heard His words,
'Let no sinner cast the stone'.

He tore the stone from his own hand
And threw it fast over the river sand
As His Kingdom rose from
Beneath the dark of his heart.