By Merlin Francis
I met Yamuna the other day.
Yes, the same Yamuna you see
On your way
To the greatest monument of love.
We once loved our rivers.
We weaved them into the stories of our Gods
Dwelled on their beauty
And gave them names to remember them by.
Yamuna, sister to Yama - the God of Death,
But blessed because of her mother's suffering.
Sanjna's abuse,
Here glorified.
Yamuna carries her mother's trauma, perhaps.
In her eyes I saw a deep sadness.
Her water had lost its clean shimmer
Her essence had been plundered away.
Buffaloes now graze lazily where once a mighty river roared through.
And every day, she relives her trauma
Watching tall buildings rise over her
As she dies, quietly pleading
For a little kindness, some love.
What is it about naming things,
And saying them over and over again,
That it seems to lose its meaning?
The more we say it, the less of it remains.
As I left Yamuna that evening
I thought again about her.
How even her darkness
Was a product of love.
Yet, she received none.