Just For The Scorpion Bite, Nissim

Just for the scorpion bite, Nissim, you turned into a great poet Writing the very Indian poem Of the very Indian countryside And its people, Applying herbal, incantatory and allopathic To save the life moaning and groaning in pain, Writhing in. But you should note it, Nissim, this is not a new thing To have happened for the first time, Such an incident happens generally, I can tell you Of the daughter bitten and being dead In the forest ranger's quarters. Nissim, the India of the countryside, rural space You know them not The houses made of mud and thatched roofs With the sparrows chirping at daybreak, You do not, Do not know them, Nor have tried you to understand them. Just as an alien insider saw you India, just as a foreigner Or a minority caste man, You saw India and read it the emotions, Alienating from its Ethos, historicity, art, culture and tradition, Myth, mystery and mysticism, Metaphysics, theology and cosmology, Religion, spirituality, philosophy and ethics. Just for the scorpion bite, the scorpion bite, the critics praised You with so much so admiration and acclamation, I have no words, No words to say to and share with As in the mud houses, on the walls of it, Under the jute knapsacks Or the haystacks Live they the brown scorpions, But the woody scorpions look like small crabs, Blackly and shining, Beetle-like, But somewhat slow in movement, Not like the brown, wheatish scorpions..