With quill in pensive hand, a lotus leaf, your enamoured papyrus;
your saffron robes flowing on the bed of grass;
your sensuous body sprawled in pastoral mode, you are
the stereotypical forest maiden aspiring for royalty.
Your eyes dream of a kingdom come, while the deer in the background
enacts melancholy. What will become of your lost nights,
his enchanted touch and this sorry state of affairs?
A hermit maid deflowered by a king.
Behind you, the river laments your fate; at your side, your smiling friends
silently pray. Saffron robed sages, with Vedas on their lips, compete
with one another to curse you with fatherless birth, betrayed love,
single motherhood and womanhood’s woe.
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