She was born of a stolen night,
Of a transient breathlessness,
To be the sight of shame,
Given the blight of blame,
Among legal virtues
That regally spurned her lack of name.
Ere she was four her mother died.
(Her father, they say, lived with another.)
All cried but she,
Who stood by the door
Looking at the eye-leaks so futile
Not knowing to cry for the wet cheeks.
After the monks had gone
And the paper gold been burnt,
It was too late to mourn.
Cold, the deceit of the sun;
Lone, her slow death was begun:
She soon learnt her fate.
She learnt to serve her aunt,
A barren bag of nerves,
Who flogged her maliciously
For her mother’s fertility,
Who fed her ambitiously
For the promise of her marketivity.
Thus ten years she grew in shame, this little flower,
Aimed at a harlot’s fame,
Blooming on her auntie’s capital.
Her assets were doubled —
Gold teeth and bangles,
High-heels for sandals:
All ready for virgin’s vandals!
The momentous day.
The dotted lines were done.
The devil had damned the play!
She was cheaply Factored, though with care;
And, well-tutored to please
She coyly dimmed the glare of the lamp
When conversation ceased.
And after all was over
She counted the damp notes on the table.
The seed of stolen night grew in social scorn,
Of those hold that scorn can kill.
It grew, instead, to share
A moneyed bliss with flesh unknown,
To give a demanded kiss
In loving air, when more seeds are sown.
She was born of a breathless moment;
Society did the rest.