The hanging bridge carried me
To the core of Vitasta
my head hung low in adoration.
The noise dimmed out;
The waters traveled in a symphony,
In sync with the tempest
in my soul.
we traveled together through life.
Her and I— dancing to my storms,
Till we watched them turn mellow in her arms.
We haven’t spoken in a while,
But if she could see me
I would tell her tales
Of how her land shamed me.
their noise filled my existence
breaking down on my spine.
They called me a wench
For bruising one man’s ego—
for blemishing another’s.
But rumours take wings—
They soar high
And they proliferate into fanciful tales.
Tales that resonate for ages
In chambers of men and women,
For the sound of a woman’s name
Comes with fables, so whimsical, so loud!
That deafening noise now rests in my soul.
I painted all my mirrors
In pungent shades
Of infidelity and repugnance.
The hanging bridge is distant;
The core of Vitasta, now, Godforsaken.
My head hangs low
as I draw one curtain after another.
Hiding away in my castle of shame;
The sound of the waters
fades in my memory,
Yet the tempest rises higher each day.
Drowning, my shame and I,
we still dance to these storms
As we watch my soul
turn glacial in her arms.
Correction: An unproofed copy of this poem was mistakenly published in the print issue. The necessary corrections have been made and updated in this online version.
(This Poem appeared in the January 2021 print issue of the Mountain Ink.)
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Seerat Wani is a student, currently pursuing her postgraduate degree in Public Policy and Governance from Azim Premji University, Bangalore.