There is a country far away whose people
believe what they hear. There is in that faraway land,
a village beyond the farthest hill
where river narrows through deepening gorge,
a path down, brass jugs on the hips of the women
gleam… Listen, there’s a far country where women
gather by the well, and one, any one of them,
believe all that’s said, believes what she feels,
as if by that river, that hidden stream,
in the depths of the brass jug’s cool water,
in the moon’s refracted light, a potion, a spell
and promises, well-spoken for her alone –the new life,
with him, the work that will free her.
As morning’s clarion sky hurries the path down
and out, to the bus, the border crossing,
the long overnight journey, the drugged reverie
kicks in, for her, for her alone, for all the sisters
like her, waking in the ragged dawn, the truth
thrust upon them, in their cubicles,
their bird-like cages rarely catching the light,
in Bombay’s infested warrens
dharmapoems 
This poem is different from what you have been posting recently. It has a nice flow which mirrors the water in the river and in the jug. Your other recent poems seem a bit disjointed in rhythm, down in spirit, and while this one ends in despair, it is not the despair of the poet, but of the poet’s subject. I liked it.
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Thanks, the previous poem, No Blood Left, focusing on the moment of death, was in response to my younger sister’s sudden death
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