Tariq tells us of a prostitute, who though polluted, makes the soil sacred for the making of idols, in this poem, for Different Truths.

Though ostracised as an outcast
Hallowed is her name
Her courtyard always in flowers bloom
Revered is the ground she walks all forlorn
A victim of a crooked law
She is forced to serve the male
The feast she spreads is inedible
Yet her flesh is covertly for sale.

In broad daylight incognito she roams
She is a loathed creature
But just as the stars come out
She is a sought after treasure
Her nocturnal visitors galore
Rich or poor, king or knave
Of her charms has been a slave
Characterised as a woman absolute
Yet she is nothing but a prostitute.

Once a year she receives a visitor rare
Who makes a living out of earthenware
The only man who while addressing her
Calls her, “ my honourable mother “
He is the humble village potter
But today he will make idols
Of gods and goddesses
And for this revered endeavour, he will
From her courtyard take a handful of soil.

©Tariq Muhammad

Photo from the Internet