Aiyo  

This word comes as the

voice of the well;

A thousand children—

A hundred artists,

drunk, lost their way—

those who fell 

while crossing over the

woven coconut fence,

clandestinely, in the ecstasy of desire—

I know the chapter of death

of the rainy well.

Twenty-seven years ago

I saw three soldiers

of the Indian army

entering that house;

Two held down

the woman who tried to flee

with a five year old;

amid loud crying

the child slapped the face 

of the third one.

Even now,

I clearly remember 

his face and the 

smudged vermillion mark

on his forehead;

A smile trickled

from the corner of his mouth—

as it fell on the dirty boot,

in a single sweep of hands

he snatched, threw the child 

into the well—

now, 

a well without a voice!