My Father is hard-bodied.
Warm and foul - He smells like Delhi in the terrible heat,
that cooks the street children in their skin.
He stalks through the Mahal,
rendering His women silent. They long
for Him to stop, to take, to conquer.
He has conquered millions
- in the dark streets of our irrepressible city.
In the stifling, nauseating, repulsive heat.
In the corners that no one looks.
Leaving broken, brown skin in His wake.
My Father is building His Monument.
His marble and blood smoke and mirror.
I hear the praise for His obsession - for my Mother.
I never once saw Him cry.
He never spoke to Her when she was alive.
My Father is a King among men. An Emperor.
He is purple robes and gilded swords.
He is building a legacy on the back of His people.
He is washing His hands clean in His childrens' blood.