O Mahakali, born of Durga’s scalp atop her mount, the tiger called Gdon,
in pressing times of siege by the asura Raktabija, he who spawn’d and spawn’d,
whose blood begot him evermore when spilt, eternal sprouts of Yama’s tortured wrath.
Here thou wert birthed in absence of great fists, of swords and wit to slay the wretched beast,
and here thou slew him clean, his blood rejuvinating did thou witfully imbibe.
O Mahakali, then so soon, postnatal, did we know thy lost shard true—it was
the whorl of her, Parvati, mother of just aught, a splicing of her wit and soul.
O Mahakali, demonslayer, death-qua-hourglass, the mistress of our times,
thou’rt darker than the Cosmos and thy clockwork’s free of chess division, black nor white.
Mayhaps in times of potent vigor, Mahakali’s sight was blurred by slaughter, death,
Upon the fall of demons once, thou did’st enter a sanguine frenzy, fury of
Parvati—sans an intervention, rage well could have snuffed out every living soul.
A lesser man, a greater fool, may have, right then, cognosced thee, thought thee devilish
and brute, but then Lord Shiva knew his wife so well—he lay beneath thy dance,
and then in pure haphazard did thou lay’st thy foot upon his serpent-donned cadaver.
Mahakali, grace and introspection struck thee so, here on the battlefield!
The cyclical creation and destruction of ourselves, our deaths, both spiritual
and true, are known as blessings from our lord in navy skin, our lady Mahakali.