by Brihintha Burggee
Adorned in the shroud of a dead husband,
She dances in vermillion
each night, surrendering to the
Devil and his lemons, to
revive my dead uncle.
As if dolls and pins and charlatans in
shreds and patches could stitch the dead again!
The smoke of religious fanaticism
permeates the air, then my lungs,
threatening to engulf me in
corrupt and nefarious myths.
She seeks and abides by all
kinds of phony priests to ensure
peace to a lost and undeserving soul.
Eating my Biryani, mixing it
again with chutney - my only
purpose to attend these hypocritical rites
as a means to useless ends -
I welcome the scented smoke,
lifting my nose up, defying the archaic and
distorted beliefs of my roots.
I refuse to belong to any of them.
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