a loom is broken

 now his eyes’ to-and-fro with the shuttle ceased.

now, on what texture

the peacocks of his dream

would play and dance ?

 the woven half-moon

on the scarf of his darling daughter is burnt away.

the colour of the wet yarn is burning

along with his rainbow fantasies.

his entire age woven in the warp and woof

is turned into a heap of ashes.

there burns the modesty of culture

draped to the naked primitive humanity !

now the frozen echo of tears in his eyes

will glare in the darkness like burning charcoal.

now no more burning the midnight oil in his hut.

they have broken his loom :

that dalit old man’s  kamdhenu.