A young woman, divine
in her glory that chimes in my mind,
as her world betrays her modest expectations,
mocking her gullible probity,
hurling lewd jibes at her beauteous breasts
it drank its first milk from.
Amidst the ruins of reeking blindness,
bruised by words, actions,
and their absence,
bleeding her last few drops of love and compassion,
aghast at her sterile faith,
she stands on the rubbles of her stillborn child.
Yearning for its clenched fist to move.
The fists, they were clenched.
Even in the safety of her womb.
Now they have lost their savage purpose.
The dead pupils and the acrid placenta
have achieved much more.
Worms in its dead crumbling spine coil
in promiscuous unison.
Her trembling, swollen hands
pull out a splinter from her heart.
A piece of broken glass
from the mirror in which she watched
her stomach swell in nine pristine months.
There still remains something divine
in those pungent ruins for her.
I see it.
The reflection of her face on that glass.
A crumbling sadness,
a solitary pain that crunches her intestines
shatters that mirror. She falls.
Her effete being hovering on a fog, hiding the shame
of the child she never had.
© 2007 Ritwik Banerjee
Paradise Lost by
Ritwik Banerjee is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
poetry literature death emotions pain woman girl