My mother's moth-balled Brocades, a whole lot of them, Are lying systematically stacked up In her ancient wooden cupboard They smell of her, the smell That belonged to a slice of her life.
This yellow one which she wore Just once in her life had wrapped A coy twenty-year-old bride Tentatively setting her dainty foot Into the hesitant bridal home.
Somewhere in the backwoods Several industrious silkworms Had spun miles of salivary yarn In the foliage of the mulberry tree To make this gorgeous five-yard saree.
The rustle of the silk drowned The wails of the boiling cocoons These worms died that beauty would live In their plaintive cries lay new bridal hopes.
My mother, the coy bride of yesteryears, Is now as non-existent as the worms That had ceased to exist spinning The smooth silk for her bridal finery.
Her bridal fragrance lives on among The delicate folds of these gossamer silks That the worms had died weaving Death is so fragrant and so memorable.
