Roots

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Boiled pots of red clay Smeared all over this vein; Morning Star calls my name. Long, long sleep, O lady — Wake up, Wedding processions have begun. Come, sit on the stool of wombed earth.

They put gold bangles on my hands, Red alta on my feet; A red veil of gold threads Adorns my head, bead by bead.

"Come, O shokhi," Cry the babui birds. The bauls with their ektara Dance around my courtyard.

Nothing is the same anymore; All around is my wedding song. Come, you too are invited Come, partake in my wedding gong.

⬤