Beehives are a feast to eyes, beauty to look at,
But from a safe distance.
Undisturbed with no physical 'touch' at all
Bees are happy producing honey,
A beauteous sap to heart
Sweet, tasty, tempting and wholesome as well.
The juice must be stored!
There is a lecherous breed who long to devour
At one go, at one time
The whole of the sumptuous meal.
Their surging desire gurgles
In their itching, burning, never satiating loin,
Wayward just to reap undue advantages
By squeezing the delicate plump,
Extracting the 'object' of desire from the unripe beauty.
There is also a third eye in the same flock
A watchful dog! A Peeping Tom!
Secretly watching from the bush,
Lying in the ambush.
Jealous! He springs up from behind
And pounces on the half-dead
After the front feels it tight due to his barking brunt!
Macho bodies remain well-uniformed,
Whether fern green, navy blue, sky white or bare
Yet bloated with dark stigma
Clogging, crabbing, clouding their souls.
This sad reality of their sinful nights
Raises big storms by day
In the country's democratically concubine cup
Of innocent blood and helpless tears
While I, like many, sip my own,
Thinking of the sordid plight of grieving India--
Those ruled and the ruler
The exploited and the exploiter and her people.