Cursed

Now she is tired and old,
Aeons ago,so the story goes,
She was restless and  bold.

She had with life quivered, 
While roaring down the peaks,
Through the valleys, she murmured.

She twisted and turned,
Shimmering under the moon,
A calm blue,warm and sunned.

She had danced on her serpentine tracks
To the music of her gurgling waters,
Now,it's her sobs that flood her bloody tracts.

The tired Sun,having failed to enlighten,
Plunges in her,to hide his shame,
She is the sole listener to the blood moon's burden.

She has  been the  perennial River of blessed Life,
Now,bears the curse of bathing blood soaked hands,
And shining gory swords,the testament of man's strife.

She winds through barren fields of corn,
For the hands that would sow the seeds,
Are lying scattered, from their body shorn.

Her banks no longer lined with swaying palms,
Her waves no longer the muse of the boat man's songs,
Her shores are but graves,the testimony of death's vulgar dance.

Her eyes are moist,heart heavy and soul wounded,
However her's is not to halt or stand still,but move on
Having buried death, for she is with life bonded.
                                                             Chandni.