Devi

I forget who I am;
They do not talk of me
On crackling parchment rolls.
I am not preserved in vellum,
Nor handed down the ages.
The voices that sing of me,
Round the fires of the tribes,
Shall soon be silenced,
Or subdued, throats torn out.
And I shall disappear, retreat into jungles and caves.
Not die, though, for they need
Enemies to conquer and slaves to serve.
So I shall remain, scorned and spurned,
My tales warped, goddess turned maid.