The
Sun did rise here
Two
hundred years ago.
A
nine year old girl.
Dragged,
thrown
into the burning funeral
of
her husband.
The
girl. Burning.
Drums beating in the background.
They
do gobble the deafening sound
of
the girl
hurled.
Close your eyes.
Visualize.
Open
Almost burnt,
she strives her way out.
Almost burnt,
she strives her way out.
Runs.
Gets
caught and thrown again.
Beaten
to death.
Thousands
of them.
In
time. In pain.
The Woman objects.
They
have all come back.
Now.
As
rebels.
They have fire in their bellies.
Their
wombs energized
with
the Sun's glow..
They survived widow brothels
Womb
slaughters.
Child
marriage.
Dowry
killings.
Many
unwritten hell.
The
Woman objects.
They
have all come back.
Now.
As
rebels.
They have fire in their bellies.
Their
wombs energized
with
buried sadness.
This time around,
your
judgements,
blind
or wise,
your
Goddesses
dressed or otherwise,
will
not be of much help,
even
if you wept at their feet
for
the next two hundred years
cleaning
the dirt you have caused
trying
to melt their frozen tears.
They
had succumbed to you.
They have survived you too.
The
Sun will rise here.
Two
hundred years later.
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