I have a blood-shedding eye from the rim of that arched brow,
of which the world sees many seditions
and of which I see my paradise and perdition–
I’m the keeper of that prince of Benaras
who will soon flit away from his slumber
and invite me to his love garden
And although the poets are clever, they get hit by his arrows
like me, their bodies became embowed like the crescent moon I was born under–
I wonder if I exist to devastate him in flower beds
or to decode the thousands of messages I receive from his forehead
His nagging pupils spin me like a top ’till the strings snap
his tantrums the oblivion and my madness cyclically trapped
The gods know, they all know
that such is this eye, and such is this brow.
© Priya Atiyolil 2020
