Vidharbha

My mother must die with my own two hands.
Here, we can turn
Death into gold.
But what will I do with this gold?

Shall I melt it and make it rain?
On this parched land of mine
Where every wishing well has dried
And promises are turning into cracks, like
Wrinkles on my forehead.

Should I crush it and plant it in the sand?
Watch it grow day by day
So that it may give me fruits, wood and shade
On this parched land of mine.
Where birds don’t sing in the morning
And at night, I have to
Find reasons to sleep.

Shall I beat it and throw it in a pot?
Cook it for my children
Who should never go hungry.
Who should run and play, for
It is their age.
On this parched land of mine
Where there is nowhere to hide.

Or shall I shape it into a sickle,
That my fathers used to yield?
And slice my own throat
On this parched land of mine
Where I can’t watch my wife
Repay the debt I owe to mother earth
With her own flesh.