It took fourteen years for the great man
to arrive that he didn’t love her.
He didn’t love her. He didn’t want her.
He didn’t like her touch. Her pitiful
face had aged early, made him cringe
when he was lonely with her: naked lonely.
O she was lonely before. Fourteen years.
In the woods of forsaken love, in the hut
of ascetic dreams. Besieged by an immortal
king who’d shadowed her
but withheld lust. She hadn’t known then
what else to do but wait.
The immortal king was dead. Against the pomp
of the capital lamps- the winner king.
The great man. Hers.
Face clean, disappointed in what he had won.
This war. O this strangeness of life! For this?
Let’s be alone soon, Sita.