Devi | Poem by Rohan Biswas | Phoenix

Devi

They hold the Devi made of clay,

With trembling hands and careful eyes.

They fold their palms before her,

Some beg forgiveness,

Some beg for more.

Drowned in greed,

They offer her flowers and flesh,

With devotion flowing from their core.

They light up the streets—

But never their minds.

Alas, the Devi in human form,

Is pushed aside.

Then they call her—

Durga, Lakshmi, Saraswati.

Yet raise their hands on her.

Silence her when her voice grows loud.

Curse her when she questions tradition.

But then again,

They worship Kali—

The destroyer of evil,

While being the very evil

She must survive.

They hunt her,

In broad daylight and night,

And call it culture.

The living Devi remains silent.

Not because she is weak—

But because she is wounded.

The Gods she trusted would save her,

Became the reason

She could not rebel.

But the time has now come.

Because clay dissolves in water,

But not the Devi in flesh and blood.

Like Durga—

She will lift her own weapons.

Like Lakshmi—

She will reclaim her worth.

Like Saraswati—

She will speak without permission.

And when that day comes,

You will stop worshipping clay,

And learn to bow,

Before the woman.

For she will stop

Becoming the survivor,

To become Kali—

The destroyer of evil.

— Phoenix

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