The lord that made her
Probably made snakes of clay
Dark and water less
Like her skin
Before he smushed and tamed it
Like she does the snake in her basket
Like she has spots of colors in her Saree
The lord went about throwing faults
Like meanders on a river carrying a shit load of silt
Grease lines on her face, yesterday’s smoke
Like the over exposed smile of the mountains
Like the color of night after the lull retires back into the morning
The mild tint in her eyes
Like asarfi maacha seen hiding and appearing from a bridge above


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