Too Late

‘Whore! ' he kicked her As she lay on the kitchen floor And he knew well that She only whored him. The child on her bosom Whined and wept aloud. 'Tell me, who fathered This vermin of yours' he said. And he knew the butterfly Was his own blood. The noose of her torn sari Held tight on her neck The other half still tied To the roof beam above. Then it dawned on him Like the rain that poured Over the river outside- She heard nothing he said And will never again. That morning too, she had Handed him some money Left from her wages and said, 'Have tea and go to work! ' That morning too, he had Ended up in the arrack shop. Now he was back right from there Hungry and his pockets empty. A stone he picked up And aimed at the sinner. As the child cried again he heard His words, 'Let no sinner cast the stone'. He tore the stone from his own hand And threw it fast over the river sand As His Kingdom rose from Beneath the dark of his heart.