burying copies of myself
i dig up bones
of a small girl
who used to build castles
out of twigs
poked into the ground
I know the way, this way, your way
through the direction of your voice
your wind song rises to eat my sun
and i am wired to your yearnings
but the words i need to give you
fall away the closer i get, the more i listen
i cannot hear the waves anymore
i am a conduit of the pain you sing
in the dark recesses of the malady you serve
i cannot reach you, i cannot reach you
teach me
~lily
To the God of Pain
Unwilling priestess in thy cruel fane,
Long hast thou held me, pitiless god of Pain
Bound to thy worship by reluctant vows
My tired breast girt with suffering, and my brows
Anointed with perpetual weariness
Long have I borne thy service, through the stress
Of righteous years, sad days and slumberless nights
Performing thine inexorable rites.
For thy dark altars, balm nor milk nor rice,
But mine own soul thou’st ta’en for sacrifice;
All the rich honey of my youth’s desire,
And all the sweet oils from my crushed life drawn,
And all my flower-like dreams and gem-like fire
Of hopes up-leaping like the light of dawn.
I have no more to give, all that was mine
Is laid, a wrested tribute, at thy shrine;
Let me depart, for my whole soul is wrung,
And all my cheerless orisons are sung;
Let me depart, with faint limbs let me creep
To some dim shade and sink me down to sleep.
Sarojini Naidu
