A bunch of pale-yellow, wrinkled Indian
Women wrapped in grey, cotton coverings
Chant-faded, wind-blown granny slokas
Worm-holing, eddying, meaning less and less;
Oyster-shell mouths, closing, opening
To drone a requiem for dull-clad Indian
Women dyed in yellow, orderly saris
pleating a culture of blind humming,
drumming up the ancient, spent, ashen,
sperm of routine, illusions and emptiness,
Voices drowning, bowed down Indian
Women lie down, thighs pried apart
by lusty, wheat-eyed industrial men
Carving up, fragmenting Sita’s purity,
burning, pock-marking, disemboweling
This bunch of cow-ish, cowed down Indian
Women bent down, beat low, eating dust,
Offering cold-spread buttocks to fascists;
Pink-soft vaginas speared by black lingams;
See now, watch how, the Third Eye opens.
