This is a poem that was part of a recent article in the New Yorker. Yeah, I know most of you are thinking, poetry, booooriiiiinnng. But hang on a sec. It's a 16th century poem written from the perspective from an Indian temple prostitute, or devadesi. Read:
I知 not like the others.
You may enter my house,
but only if you have the money.
If you don稚 have as much as I ask,
a little less would do.
But I値l not accept very little,
Lord Kǒǹkaneśvara.
To step across the threshold
of my main door,
it値l cost you a hundred in gold.
For two hundred you can see my bedroom,
my bed of silk,
and climb into it.
Only if you have the money
To sit by my side
and to put your hand
boldly into my sari:
that will cost ten thousand.
And seventy thousand
will get you a touch
of my full round breasts.
Only if you have the money
Three crores to bring
your mouth close to mine,
touch my lips and kiss.
To hug me tight,
to touch my place of love,
and get to total union,
listen well,
you must bathe me
in a shower of gold.
But only if you have the money
Wow. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that the nature of sex work (yes, I'm committing the SW heresy of lumping in stripping with sex work) hasn't changed for 500 years but...damn. The article is fantastic too, and heartbreaking:


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