I call upon the brigade
Of muddied waters and skins
To sing to me a song
In the language of the seraph
Whose words I have to break apart
and rebuild to understand

All she talks to me
About is the ground on which my grandfather
Stood his tent and the books
Which writ themselves
Of the truths and couplets that were borne
Of them. I asked her
“What is it — that had to end for you to begin?”

She looked ashamed for a second
The monsoon had drenched her
The mosquitoes had landed on her neck
And she could no longer read
The words which she had inked on her chest

“My children were happier,” she said
“When they picked grapes from the trees
Watching the Mistress through the window
Ironing her clothes
On their mother’s vanity

Long before the engine started to shriek

And they were gulled into believing the enemy
Was the river that bathed them.”