(Sati refers to afuneral ritual within some Indian cultural communities in which a recently widowed woman immolates herself, typically on the husband's funeral pyre. This poem, ignites those fires from my mind, and puts it into words. Too deep, I know.)
Sati
Imagine.
You stand in front of the fiery flames, which devour your better half's body.
You pray to God, to successfully commit the 'agnipareeksha'.
Your colourless, worn out sari, sympathises with you.
Your mind races, as the entire village arrives, for your departure.
Your nearly-orphaned child, whines and wails behind a woman's sari.
You died, when he died, but they're killing you again.
Your mother cries to her husband's shoulder.
You father's neck mauls with the feeling of sickness.
You don't wish to die, but have to.
You don't believe in it, but have to.
You enter the flames, and it burns your ailing soul.
You wish you were Sati Savitri, who could get her husband from Yamlok.
But no, you are another victim, of this abolished process of Sati.
The woman dies with her man, and so does the humanity.
~:ZG:~
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Yin and Yang
Poetry"Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen." ― Leonardo da Vinci "Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the...
