Someone's daughter? Or not even Someone?

All over the world, particularly in "Socially backwaard" countries like India,
The female class is not getting what they deserve.
Here is my version or say, interpretation of how miserable their life is at times.

She awoke,

Heaving with hope.


The hope,

Of spending a day.

Better than the previous ones.

Her face was lour.

With determination dour,

She started with the chores.

And her spirits did floor.


Her man was up!

He hit her hard,

For not having prepared

His daily tea.


As for her fate,

She wasn’t late.

This scamp got up,

Early today


The mirror on the wall,

Did nothing at all.

But, help her place her suhaag,

 In the perfect place

It denoted her poise

The poise which never was!

And could never be?

She wept bitterly.


Each calendar day,

And every night.

She held her fists?

Incredibly tight.

That’s all.


That’s the most!

She could ever do.

As darkness would drape,

Love they’d make.

All so fake

It would ever be.

His mahogany body,

He would force.

On this poor pretty lady


And this is why she was his wife,

This is why, she lives her life.

Verve of anguish,

 a being of contempt.


A life, far worse

Than the stray dogs she’d feed

At her maternal home.

 They were loved.

Even she was loved there…

Why did she come?


Could for half a guntha gold,

A life be sold?


For two Anna a day,

Did her father have the right,

To give her away?


Did she leave all her hopes,

All her dreams behind.

For this dreadful death?


Sadly of course,

The answer is yes!

The End

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