thig.2.3 Therigatha

Sumaṅgala’s Mother

I’m well freed, well freed,
so very well freed from the pestle!
My shameless husband popped up like a mushroom,
my mortar wafted like eels.
Greed and hate sizzle and hiss
as I squelch them.
Having gone to the root of a tree,
I meditate happily, thinking, “Oh, what bliss!”