That lasting pilgrimage, from Dhaka to Kalimpong
Thru snaky streets, nay rivers, march dogged conquests
In beelines to redemption, echo many a swan song
“Moti! Pay heed! For to you, they belong, Brinda’s breasts!”
O’er many monsoons, sprouted from a Brahmin’s rib cage
Two murky nipples, stood out to hunger’s tests
And they sank and soared, to famines’ outrage
As they learnt to, come of age, Brinda’s breasts
How a bride was cut, of a puny village lass
Who brought dearth and virtue, her only bequests!
Didn’t last though, past a night alas!
Misery, in the flesh, be it so, Brinda’s breasts
Now a widow, an outcast, an exile, a Shudra’s keep
In his arms, makes way, to the Promised Land’s quests
Atop a hushed heart, a heartless bosom dead-asleep
Brazen, unsuckled, unrequited fests, Brinda’s breasts
© 2016 Vikas Chandra
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