History of IPL || Taufiq Rafat || Wedding in the Flood's Summary, Analysis, Themes.

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Video is about the poetry of Toufiq Rafat specifically "Wedding in the Flood".
You can find Summary, analysis and themes of this poem in the video. Text of the poem is below;
“Wedding in the Flood”
They are taking my girl away forever,
sobs the bride’s mother, as the procession
forms slowly to the whine of the clarinet.
She was the shy one. How will she fare
in that cold house, among these strangers?
This has been a long and difficult day.
The rain nearly runied everything,
but at the crucial time, when lunch was ready,
it mercifully stopped. It is drizzling again
as they help the bride into the palankeen (palanquin)
This girl has been licking too many pots.
Two sturdy lads carrying the dowry
(a cot, a looking glass, a tin-trunk,
beautifully painted in grey and blue)
lead the way, followed by a foursome
bearing the palankeen on their shoulders
Now even the stragglers are out of view
I like the look of her hennaed hands
gloats the bridegroom, as he glimpses
her slim fingers gripping the palankeen’s side
If only her face matches her hands,
and she gives me no mother-in-law problems,
I’ll forgive her the cot and the trunk
and looking glass. Will the rain never stop?
It was my luck to get a pot licking wench.
Everything depends on the ferryman now.
It is dark in the palankeen, thinks the bride,
and the roof is leaking. Even my feet are wet.
Not a familiar face around me
as I peep through the curtains. I’m cold and scared.
The rain will ruin the cot, trunk and looking glass.
What sort of man is my husband?
They would hurry, but their feet are slipping,
and there is a swollen river to cross.
They might have given a bullock at least,
grumbles the bridegroom’s father; a couple of oxen
would have come in handy at the next ploughing.
Instead, we are landed with
a cot, a tin trunk and a looking glass,
all the things that she will use!
Dear God, how the rain is coming down.
The silly girl’s been licking too many pots.
I did not like the look of the river
when we crossed it this morning.
Come back before three, the ferryman said,
or you’ll not find me here. I hope
he waits. We are late by an hour,
or perhaps two. But whoever heard
of a marriage party arriving on time?
The light is poor, and the paths treacherous,
but it is the river I most of all fear.
Bridegroom and bride and parents and all,
the ferryman waits; he knows you will come
for there is no other way to cross,
and a wedding party always pays extra.
the river is rising, so quickly jump aboard
with your cot, tin trunk, and looking glass,
that the long homeward journey can begin.
Who has seen such a brown and angry river
or can find words for the way the ferry
saws this way and that, and then disgorges
its screaming load? The clarinet fills with water.
Oh what a consummation is here:
The father tossed on the horns of the waves,
and full thirty garlands are bobbing past
the bridegroom heaved on the heaving tide,
and in an eddy, among the willows downstream,
the coy bride is truly wedded at last.
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