She whipped him playfully
with a thin rattan stick
and he said ‘I feel no pain’ bravely
she asked him if he could not be hurt
and began to whip herself
‘stop it….. you’re hurting me’ he said
he stood at the edge of their meeting place
when she got there,
she circled him, round and round like ten times
‘have you gone mad? ‘ he asked
‘no I have not’
‘I am like the world circling my sun’ she says
‘what would I be without my sun?’
‘I’d be so cold, my life would be gone’
‘my soul is yours’ she says
‘just as my spirit forever thine…’ he replied
‘they cant tear us apart if they tried’
to his lover, he bid.
in a remote district,
two villages were at loggers head
around them were fires and slaughter
human blood drunk by the ground
and for the young couple,
oblivious of all but love.
she awaited the yellow string
that was to be tied by him
around her neck.
a saffron-colored string that proved that they were wed
but then his mother died,
and his young lover, they took her away
now another’s wife,
she still called her lovers name on the new bed
though her body had lost its feelings
when the other man tied the yellow string around her
her spirit was dying,
in her mind, would he still come someday?
the flesh would die
but the soul so lives
searching for the spoken last words
that was said.
Cover image by lingabhairavi.org
We accept short stories, poems, opinion pieces, and essays on a complimentary basis.