But talks of harmony flood your nose. / Harmony, harmony, harmony—you want it so bad, / and so you put words in our mouths
You have made ice out of my heart;/ we were once nothing–you brutalise me
rise, rise—now evening dies: sun-born in valleys with burning olive trees—where women like me plod one day at a time,
I am put away impulsively like the totems on a modern alter
Women and the earth have to tolerate a lot. –Kaajal (1965)
The first pulse, in the midst of a whipping maelstrom,
In the blanks of muddy moonlight
But talks of harmony flood your nose. / Harmony, harmony, harmony—you want it so bad, / and so you put words in our mouths
This is a garden, these are my petals; this is my armoring plant
You have made ice out of my heart;/ we were once nothing–you brutalise me
rise, rise—now evening dies: sun-born in valleys with burning olive trees—where women like me plod one day at a time,
I am put away impulsively like the totems on a modern alter
On the heart of a place where heather blossoms, Dreams of scattered bodies and burnt heath Against the walls where children live
I look in the mirror, and the tides start turning,
