For the philandering man,
who seeks the dark woods of the night;
For the plumes of pleasures
to titillate his craven lust
what awaits him, forlorn in that nest, his home
he fails to see,
He ever “covets his neighbour’s wife”
whereas his own,
beholds the sacred Tulsi,
the vermillion smeared on her forehead,
the sprinkles of the sanctified water
it gently pours down
that sanctum of her being(chaste);
the parched soil beneath, the cracks of pain;
the withering roots of patience
All that will cave
in, crumble one day,
Or erupt in fury;
On the pyre of burning embers
The fiercest woman, with a passion unbeknownst,
The wilted Tulsi will see in her rise
The vermillion of the chaste chambers
Flowing free, those desires, its spirit, would a man ever
surmise?
