We who fed solely on thy glance, Meenakshi
Now in Language's cold North, all at Sea,
bait that gibbet, more grotesque than absurd
by which God yet fishes for the Word.
Envoi-
Midons! Mulier amicta sole! Refuge, no refugee can escape
To such duo pesces as of her eyes are the shape.
Riposte-
That Love endures as but Justification or Apology
'Tis well Thy fusiform fulminates Topology
Siddhanth-
Against being other, to Mother, our every Supplication
Becomes, Alas!, its own Multiplication
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