At last, my tailor stall shuts down.
Winnows flow through my home windows,
caressing my skin as I lounge.
Lost in drowsy moods, I dream;
of mirrors glimmering on Kurtas,
reflecting my guests' grateful beams,
stitching blouses with rousing flowers,
studding them with lambent gems.
My, how they'll shine in bridal showers!
Pleating saris on mannequins,
sipping cold fresh mango juice,
sun rays skimming on those sequins,
quilting my Kantha with Kurtas, and Saris,
bordering it with bright blue beads,
dreaming of each stains' histories:
Maybe a Rani dabbed her tears,
as a doe died near her palace walls.
Could this explain this kohl stain here?
Perhaps a Raja healed a hurt hare,
when strolling in the misty woods.
Could that explain that bloodstain there?,
I stroke my Kantha’s red cotton thread.
I beam at my joyful working days,
I hope I dream more dreams in bed.
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