Friday, November 11, 2011

At the gates of Borgha

The nonchalant prophecies
Often return an amused smile
Away from the chromic door
I stand,at the gate of Borgha.
The palace set up,like a gem
Decorated into a clumsy whim
The grills are cold, ember black
They sing to me, a tale of tales,untold.
And the more I see,
The more I know
The vassalage of Goddess Tara
Occult writers,describe the Mother
The Queens and haridasis,hymns and fables
Write the story of time at Borgha.
Carts of gold, steel and coal
Sweaty hands and empty pockets
Still protruding ears to hear the happy shrill
But they are cursed,the men at Borgha
Never would a woman be conceived there,
And when they protest,
Shadowy reminisces of a sinned past, haunts.
Mother Tara, deflorated by one of their brethen
Lay in blood,soaked in disgrace
Her body, covered in ochre,
Her face mutilated.
A man, appears on the other side of the gate
Lust, staring into me,
I loathe with venomnous hatred,
As I turned around and left.
The city of Borgha must remain sinned
Till the Holy water is found again.
I shall take births,but not come to my abode
Till they know they are sinners of Borgha.