Lady With The Broom

No poetic enquiry of her unaccustomed smile
Will crack the mystery of her sudden style
As her plebian bucket and broom she wields
Perspires under the sun, sweeps and shields.

Neither prose nor no verse
Cross her island of Circe;
Escape vapors that arise
Confining your moments to her kohled eyes.
She may be sweeping streets but keeps
Your caged soul in dark pomegranate lips.

Until her amber waist, with a ferocity of motion
Brings you back to earth; shatters your illusion
You weakling, you fool, here was no average emotion_
On an average scorching afternoon.
She is getting married soon.

by Mandira Mitra

Comments (1)

plebian bucket, ok, i have to look up that word, still a great poem.