She had a tortoise shell broken in half,

one piece of which had gratified a bully.

The other slept silently on a table by the painting,

to sulk at the occult of foreign arts.

And when a tormented fire from flowers in paint

burned a scar deep on her thigh- she said:

“This one for you, is not so empty,

the whole of it might give indigestion.”




And there, on the canvas

under a tree in Bihar, sat the Lord Buddha.

Exemplified, content, narrated in verse of half-spoken tense

and stuffed on broken shells- his poor diarrheic soul!

Her warning had turned insidious tones of brown.

Not knowing of love, only nirvan or the vanity of soul,

the mighty mighty Buddha finally smiled.