Manju Kachuli
An old woman peeps through her window
Democracy in her yard
Resting under her chin
Her own beautiful wrinkled hand
A wonderful formless form in peacefulness
Chiseling it to boost the aroma of the goddess
In her nose, eyes, mouth and ears
Endurance in rumple, glory in ironed crumple
Tolerance in reticence, concrete
Is it suffering? Is it bliss?
Unknown!
One cannot see
It is smeared inside the stone-wall of her face
Her vocal cord is shut or perhaps cut long before
She looks beautiful; a beautiful bust of gallantry
A tourist takes its pictures from various angles
Made of stone!
Perhaps a goddess in the city of the temples
A bestowed honor to lie shut
So suffocating wind into the fore-wall!
Is it forever?