Asymmetric

Upon the earthen floor, in the north-east’s sombre keep,

Weeps a shadow-dark enchantress; the day lies lightless, deep;
A mountain vast of knowledge looms, yet clad in shadow’s veil,
Her form—a sodden, formless thing, as chasms grim and pale.

She wore a garland wrought of palash bloom, where many a tale did twine;
A plateau of silken cocoons beneath her heavy feet did shine;
The naked shape of womanhood was painted in man’s hue—
Yet simple was her spirit’s stream, from some strange, unknown crew.

The ample-bosomed Night of dark did dance upon her skin;
Her years lay far, like leagues away; the noontide waned within;
And some bold soul, untimely stirred, might dare to gaze again—
At such a form, in such an hour, so full of secret pain.

By the roadside, in the stone-bound earth, gold blossoms upward press;
Her eyes seemed not a maiden’s eyes; her lips in guardedness;
The meadows stood with ripened grain; the farmers sang their lay;
But locust swarms, at midnight’s hush, fell in to steal away.

And lo! a man from out the cage of her deep heart had borne her—
His palm upon her mouth, his flesh to hers, his soul’s lamp drawn before her;
Where once there dwelt the gaze, the lips, the mirth, and mind’s pure fire,
There lingered now but emptiness—no labour, no desire.

The locust thrust its proboscis in, drank all the sweetness dry,
And fled; while in the ruin’s dust the jackal-monk drew nigh;
Within the thousand ears of rice lay withered grains and small,
And in her breast the maiden wept, and broke away from all.

The world askew, half-mad, stood still—her sinless body prone;
She stared into the night’s deep vault, unseen, unknown, alone.