Ananya S Guha
There was a time
when the hills denuded
scattered out of myth
origin and ash
came tumbling down
with waterfalls, lakes and rivers
to give succour to incarnadine hues.
The hills I have known, paraded with
my destiny, the hills that moulded clay
into mythic dolls. Yes these were the hills I knew.
Molten clay, shrapnel hirsute legs the hills were
not man made. Man. Woman
and in the Sacred Groves the hush could be heard.
Not felt, only scatter of rains.
with a wild myth of flowers
heaping mounds of love.
Prescient hills you shoot out the future
and supinely lie on the past
in eternal rest.
Marigolds will not turn your hair
into wounded gashed fingers.
Marigolds only wither and mingle
with these hills of slow time.