She stands with gulmohurs in hands,
With rain in hair, a deathly stare
Into the wood that wouldn’t burn,
Into the sindoor-spotted urn,
Into the light that wouldn’t fight
Or even try to clear the sky.

She breaks her wait. To open gate
She goes and drops her urn of woes
Into the drain, awash with rain,
A redness dripping from her head
And trickling over reddened toes.

The myth, the song – they both are wrong,
Except the night felt just as long
As seven nights, without the lights
Of morning ever coming in
Through curtains of the quarantine.

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