A Summons

by Brett Rutherford

Toru Dutt! Toru Dutt!
All night long,
that name resounds.
I wake, I dash to find
she died at twenty-one,
a poet, a fiery Bengali,
a genius whose pen
spanned England, France,
and the lore of Hindustan.

Her books are now before me.
I tremble. Her star
soars now, by her own will,
elected to join the others.

That poems may not die,
the poets' shades call out.
So great are some,
that a name suffices.
Toru Dutt! Toru Dutt!

Her trumpet clarion sounds.