By Gopi Kottoor
It was hot in the afternoon,
the sun basking on the billows
of the chimney from the kitchen;
I heard the slow enchant of a been,
and ran bursting,
the water still clinging to my body
from the country pond.
And there he was,
dusky, blowing long white beard, his face
a darkness of ancient stone,
a piece of cloth wrapped around his loin,
hunched,
His pungi, dazzling gold, playing on, as from the bamboo wraps to his side
lithe, grape vining the musical air
they rose, innocent,
their hoods petal wide in magical adoration,
eager to sperm all about that music;
but he just clamped them back shut
for they were already his;
And now as he kept playing on,
from out of the hushed dark green they came,
mighty ones, dagger sheathed,
all bejeweled poison
flaring fast curl swirls,
blazing ghost trails on the torrid mid day mud;
So many of them,
turned rivers on the boil
purling untamed towards an unfathomed sea
not heeding if it was lilting death,
All for music, their visible god
for whom they would bequeath the wildflowers
of their hoods;
And he opened his baskets,
twirling them in
as a girl twines ribbons on her hair
before a mirror;
Plucked out their fangs;
And they went in, each wounded one,
enslaved in thrall,
circling obediently into quiet endless nights,
the majesties of their raging forest fires
Melting to thin ice.