By Paramjit Paul
And he flushed the empty canvas into a chronicle –
Where he paints the tale of a young dame…
Needling pieces of fragmented frames,
Conjuring the divinity she is known for!
For he narrates the flaws in shades precise –
Of infinite passions and ruthless calm eyes;
A taint in the pure world of the dignified,
Adored by the demeaned, a mystical deity glorified.
And the tale prophesied of a child –
Residing in madness of uncanny reflections,
A child devoured of her childhood
By estranged kins' of deceptive intentions;
While consumed by darker days and insane nights,
She cries faintly in her dark confinement –
Wounds unhealing from merciless nightmares
Awakens an indestructible rage; dormant and rare.
And her strive for solace, eluded lustful eyes –
Wiping the tears, she resisted; a vengeful smile thrives,
Hidden behind the shameful mask for long,
Now, she walks the disgraceful roads, dauntless;
A woman of grace, a Sentinel on a quest –
The venom of the Serpent flows down her veins
Avenging the tarnished honour of the alike,
For she wanders seductive, whilst a bloodthirst coincides.
Embedded to the essence of her name,
She has earned a sinful fame –
Alluring as the Eve’s Apple
Fascinating the Adams’ insane;
For piercing the countless veil of womanhood
She punishes; luring to a death, inhumane –
A sacrifice she keeps making to some unknown God,
An atonement for sins, infamy and unkind.
And the portrait foretells a tainted chronicle,
Where he unravels her inevitable fear…
A world of unevenness conceiving her tears,
Of torn attires crushed under dominant radicals –
And a silent madness dance across her belligerent soul
For she brawls unwearied to retain her undead spirit
In this cruel world, she strives
Just to know, if she’s dead or alive?