Mamta Sagar (ಮಮತಾ ಸಾಗರ್)

The sharp word,
the pricking silence,
as spear-points tear into flesh,
the pain pours in red.
Drop by drop it falls on the page
as words -- a bead-necklace.
Rubies, I am fond of.
On my touch, the flow of blood
stops; if I wish, drops
crystallise into a necklace.
This lump in my throat;
around it lies sorrow,
a double-layered string,
on which hangs my heart-locket,
beating with heaviness.
Whether he gave it or I
took it, the truth is
 -- it’s broken.

These red-drops of ruby-crystals
one by one, I’ve collected, saved;
I’ve many like this.