Poems from heart to connect every soul



She lives in the second bungalow around the next right.
Or, maybe, She just resides there.

Because, at the next right;
Living isn’t a piece of cake.
Because, in the society right around the next right,
She is known as the “victim” of rape.

Months ago, she lied there.
In front of that devil; in torn clothes.
The devil, whom her life loathes.

With his manly hood, more erect than his spine,
He doesn’t deserve to be called a man, much less a beast.
And She isn’t the “victim” even on the very least.

The real “victim” of this rape is the society.
And the spectators who saw this “wrong” around the next right.
The ones who provided the devil with conditions circumsized.
By whom, her true verdict got victimized.

Now, beneath the bruises, lays the fear.
Underneath the ripped chest; lay the real scars.
And her veins now carry hatred and distrust.
The veins which were destined to carry stars.

And what was her fault?
Maybe that She was born a girl.
Really, what was her fault?
Maybe that She survived the attack.
And She survives everyday.
Only to die within.
And She survives everyday.
With lost hopes of living again.

And these hopes are spread everywhere in this society.
On the last floor of that lavish building;
The wife is getting raped recklessly by her husband.
And in that villa across the road, she is selling herself to meet the end.

And this hurts my soul to know,
To know that in the bungalow around the next right.
There hides a girl day and night.
She might be my sister; my mother.
Might be my daughter; my lover.
She hides there in fear of violence by some benevolent bastard.
She hides there waiting to love herself again.
She hides there coping to live with herself; just once again.

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Childhood Journey


Mai aur Mahapaur

1 Comment

  1. Shourya


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