PRATISHTHA KHATTAR
Epitome
The banyan roots hang from aboveand reach her feet,I find myself bowing down alike,mogra lingers in her tresses,she smells of holy spirit,there is a temple in her heart.
I have walked, crawled, and wept at the altar,and she has fed love into my tiny palms.The sun is always splitting in her eyes,why else must she be immortal glow?
I rest in her bosom,she is eternal spring,I wonder about the garden-keepers—who tends to her every day?
She kneels and bends but never breaks,I’ve seen her carry mountains,and climb them too,I wonder about strength—who could have a moreindomitable spirit?
I stand back and stare,she is a giver, a nurturer, and a warrior,she is always beautiful,I wonder about god,and only one thing comesto my mind—who else could she be like?…
