My heart pants and gasps, it is terrified.
Clouds beat and thunder, petrified.
Like a raindrop, a drop of tear sometimes bursts from my eyes.
As I open your sack all leaves had dried.
Soon you touched me, my dried twigs revived.
The body which you touched, should I hide it?
The mind which you laid eyes on, to whom may I show?
O’ my moon burn my body with your light.
on your high altar, my wings are cut.
—Bhupen Hazarika
MINERVA’S PERCH 