An epiclet: Apsara Canto 9
He crossed the Rubicon of the English channel
loaded with cash, and from the white cliffs of Dover
went by horse carriage to the streets of London
Mr Smith, what is this that is happening?
Are you like Bill Sikes seeing Nancy’s eyes?
Why do you turn pale as a sheet seeing a ghost not dead
every now and then? Is it the goddess in your head,
haunting you? Or the murdered Mrs Smith?
Or Apsara, nut brown, whose clammy wet fingers of that night that you fled, trying to strangle your mental peace?
Or do you fear a poor blacksmith’s son and look over your shoulders anxiously
though you know he cannot be anywhere around?
has been transformed into a town
The temple has vanished out of neglect and disuse
from that fateful day, forlorn.
No one knows if the figurine’s gone.
From whence comes this rapid transformation?
The railways are the expected cause
The village is full of Mr Smiths now
and Mrs Smiths, while Apsara hides
and our nameless hero plots
He reads now in many languages
an expanding world is before him laid
no longer satisfied with the old or the new
he devours the NT, the Quran and Marx
not to mention Tom Paine, Voltaire and Rousseau
He even manages to get hold of Henry Derozio,
also reading the ancients and Roy.
Everything changes for him and he waits
talking to friends who like him want change.
Meanwhile Apsara never comes out
In her house she sits silents, starts at any slight sound
No one knows how to heal her bruised body and soul
The one who could wanders in planning his goal
Apsara wishes that like the dust motes
seen in the sunbeams and then fore’er gone
she too had never been born or could die
The victim feels she should be swallowed by earth!
When the perpetrator it is who should suffer!
Somethings don’t seem to change in the world
But one has to let the full tale unfold
The blacksmith’s son’s time has come
Everywhere there is the sound of hammering
Sparks fly, rivets are forged and trenches dug as the rails are laid
The Brits have no qualms in using this subaltern
They do not know of the past, molten