Once a child, wailing,
out of haste born,
Left on the street to beg, of all dignity shorn.
Now, in the prime of her life, torn apart
by matters of the world and the heart.
Between crimson shame and her anger pale
she sobs as she tells her gory tale.
Once a maiden, in her own law forlorn
to love the lips that smile at her in scorn.
Look how she cannot even choose
but love the man who put her to use.
The youth is spent, the beauty's gone away.
Which way shall she turn, what will she say?
She wakes up to another weeping morn,
as love turns to hate, indifference to scorn.
Nature made her so, she's so much at strife
with herself, she slits her wrist with a jagged knife.
A bird falls on the ground with a thud
covered in her own sweat-salty blood.
Not too far, a blood-red wing lies
reflected in her stone-like eyes.
Stench. A hustle. No tears, but a timely burial.
Canonization follows. In her honour - a memorial.
A lifeless picture. Cold, senseless stone.
A painted idol. Contending to the eye alone.
~Riya~
