From the wilds’ deepest abyss, she arose,
To usurp the throne of mystique and flair,
Clutching the merry coins in her grasp,
To the sorrowful minds of golden Æschere.
Embraced by Aphrodite, in lust and shame entwined,
Mutilated by glory's sceptre harsh and cold,
Estranged from tales of innocent lore,
Amidst the realms of kindergarten and Canterbury.
Enshrouded in the ocean's dusty cloak,
Tinged by the wings of the setting sun,
She stands — our mère in clay; our sole source of persistence —
Yet from Her veins, we sip the wine of our revelry.
She poured the elixir of death from Bethesda’s pool,
Consumed by the myrtle in the realm of xylographic diaspora,
She is the dove that gave birth to Phoenix from her ashes,
In an era where fate danced between Hephaestus and Ares.
Ravaged by the deeds of General Sherman,
Kissed by the distaste of Mother Teresa,
Raped by the pimps from the world demarchy
The lone sentry still worships her — once one year, every.
আসছে বছর আবার হবে |
These pictures were taken at Kumartuli, Kolkata on the occasion of Durga Puja.
Shamasis Bhattacharya 
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