As the clock
strikes eleven, perhaps not the twelfth
A women
passes by in the narrow streets
The darkness
is so grave , like her future and ours too
So dark that
we cannot see the perspiration on her face
The
petrified deer walks into the snares of the hunter unaware
A life is
ruined they might sneer, but a life is lost we consider
Under the
prying eyes of the society she lives
A shadow of
her dead soul, silently weeping
We the
women, the bearers of the future
But fettered
and bound by chains, unheard our cries
Unheard are
the cries of the female clan upholders
But only
heard are the mock of the pleasure seeking
For they
catapult themselves towards the cease of the human clan
Should we
walk shrouded as we do, veiled from others?
Or should we
break the gap to protect ourselves?
Are we just
the helpless puppets of few? To satisfy?
Or are we to
live fearless like the upholders of future?
A woman- A
daughter, a mother , a sister to few
And an
object of use to others? But remember Oh! Vain Men
With the
titles you recklessly display, A women take many forms-The one most feared of
that of the Goddess Durga!
comment:
p_commentcount