Her Wrong Deeds, His Goodness
Her Wrong Deeds, His Goodness
The old man at the banks of River Sagana
is whipping the wife
and shouting to those fetching water
his goodness and er wrong deeds
He strikes and strikes the unweaved head
wife until wounds appear
in his hand, her tears and blood
her heart raining a thousand memories
Words which sores her innocent heart
bruising her now writhing face
what a fate must she go through?
she kneels on icicling sand and sobs- bitterly
And the man, angry as a beast, leans against a rock
exhausted, sweating, fidgeting, purged-
scorns her as ignoble, disgrace and undeserving
well, it's o'er now, disowning her
Albeit, she has got wont
to the beatings every dawn and dusk
unspoken, of an agony she chose not- maybe
but she has had to bear, no choice
in his righteousness, sickened by her 'sins'
goes home, ways foul
an empty room, no cooking
worse than the blows, whipping, ticks and laments.