Status Updates From Blues from Bhimnagar

Language of colonisers on this tongue
is like an orphan child
it grows, but not in its reverence

Language of colonisers on this tongue
is like an orphan child
it grows, but not in its reverence

I am finding it so hard to move past the grip each word, on each page is having.
when a dalit woman concieves, she doesn't merely give birth to sons or daughters, she begets hope and, atoms those one day, brick by brick, blast the cruel tower of caste

I have just landed on the 7th poem marked serially. And I have goosebumps! The kind of power sowed and reaped in the words here:

"I am the sapling of the tree of an ointment invented by my ancestors to cure the eternal wound of caste in this country. Water me with compassion and forgiveness of your womanhood, and kill the caste inside you. Let us grow together."