Our flowers and leaves and fruit are here
In silver-white plates of morning fragrance
From burning incenses, flames of camphor.
Our waters stream between lips and palms.
Our flowers shall be flung at framed pictures.
Come face to face with the elephant head
That laughs on a rounded stomach of sweets
The head of a trunk from a severed north
On a torso standing guard on mother’s bath.
A father is egotistical of a divine drum dance
He that dances in snow hills of blue poison
That cannot wait to see wife bathing in cave,
He that smears his body with our death-wish.
His prankster son has to eat in his stomach.
Pock-marked moon laughs at his bloated stuff.
We all love him the way he pats his stomach
When he will pace up and down on our roof
After a heavy meal of rice cakes and jaggery. (Tomorrow is the worship day of Ganesha, the elephant-god
who visits us every year this day)