From the abyss of the uncultivated she arose
To embezel the throne of myst and flair,
Holding on to the coins of merry
Unto the pity minds of the golden Æschere.
Embraced by Aphrodite in her moments of lust and shame,
Mutilated by the sceptre of glory,
Separated from the story of innocence,
In the heart of kindergarten and Canterbury.
Embodied and wrapped around the dust of the oceans,
Coloured with the wings of the dying sun,
She is our mère in clay; our sole source of persistence –
Albeit it is Her blood that we drink and dance.
Served the elixir of death flowing down the pool of Bethesda.
Devoured by the myrtle in the canvas of xylographic diasphora.
She is the dove that gave birth to the Phoenix from her ashes,
At a time when providence was both Hephaestus and Ares.
Wrecked by the works 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.
These pictures were taken at Kumartuli, Kolkata on the occasion of Durga Puja.