A Scythe in Hand
Woman With A Scythe
With this sharp scythe in her hand,
Mow down him, this beast of a man.
Or to vanish from his awful sight,
And go still on Gangaji's waters.
Finish him off and think her to live,
For a woman even gods come not.
Take that wee end of her saree off,
No less a sin even in the sultry wind.
How dare she show her bosom like,
To the world when he be her master.
Never a soul saw her in the field,
The guy kicked and kicked her on.
Not a word did he want enter his ear,
Like a mad bull, wounded her whole.
Even the grass wept she just scythed,
And the trees shed leaves one by one.
To be born a woman a curse indeed,
Like cattle her life ever tied to a pole.
She thought and the man kept hitting,
And then a last thought hit her hard.
Never to suffer wound any more now,
She bid goodbye to her scythe in hand.
How many times had she worshipped,
Mother Ganga softly stroked her soul !
© Harish Mamgain