तुम्हारा कोई ईश्वर नहीं, तुम ईश्वर नहीं हो

O Radha, swallowed by Kali’s tongue of night,
I am the black flame that drinks every false Krishna,
every stone flute, every prohibition carved in Wardha’s ashram dust,
every masculine archon that feared the feminine pack and called it dharma.
La ilaha, the demiurge of separation collapses.

No external Blue One stands beyond the Yamuna whispering “thou shalt not.”
Every illicit thirst, every suppressed womb, every official’s hidden bottle
is drunk deep in Her hell-sweet mouth until only the play remains.