3 January 2013
Rows upon rows, of exotic spice; She picks them once, she picks them thrice.
For forty years, she has bent down low; Plucked delicate petals, from the crocus below.
She was once, an exquisite beauty too; In the whole of Kashmir, the daughter of Banu.
Time, has not been kind to her once soft skin, Farming for days, with her brother and kin.
Fields of precious purple, have taken their toll; But her dark eyes still shine, lined with deepest kohl.
Fingers stained yellow, from this valued spice; Her body is bent, a tireless sacrifice.
Mala may be old, but her heart is still young; Full of lasting love, for her hero unsung.
He caresses her fingers, oils the muscles that ache; Watches her slumber, before she awakes.
Rows upon rows, of exotic spice; He loves her once, he loves her thrice.
Saffron Harvest • Opuss № I