An Indian Woman

Goddess is she in the heaven;

Blooms she in the mortal garden,

Born she not a boon,

Seeded in her the curses.

Trapped she in a cocoon;

Cries her soul at the bruises.

Bleeds she when flourished;

God's left unworshipped. 

Excels she at the worldly growth;

But forced soon into a marriage oath,

Denied she to marry if she has a love,

Forced to make a mere nuptial vow.

Has she to bleed red;

With a stranger in bed,

As the test of purity.

Deserves she the trust,

But suffers she from the lust.

Has she to be far from idolatry;

For not to commit impurity.

Is she machine maternally, 

And does chores mechanically.

Is she the guilty pleasure

For her man at leisure.

Is she the flesh fed for hunger

And a shell crushed in anger.

Is she given freedom,

But consumed by seldom.

Is she an angel in the god's kingdom,

But treated devilish in the man's whoredom.

Is her forehead for beloved kisses

Or the sign of superstition bespeaking of widows.

Cultivated by the sensations;

Contaminated by the traditions,

Buried she with damnation. . .