Today I tell you
the tale of a girl
with an infectious smile
and eyes shimmering as pearl
She would toil all day,
with unflinching hope,
hope, which would never fray
of a day
when the world would be hers,
and she would get rid of her curse
of darkness, of poverty,
of squalor, of penury.
She would toil all day,
to earn the prized bread
and make her siblings well read.

But fate had other plans,
She was an inheritor of mischance.
She carried a child in her womb,
a souvenir of a whim
lewd and sinister;
Time would heal
the Satan’s wanton wounds,
who would savage
her soul’s carnage?
Her microcosm came to stagnate
nobody standing by to placate
the immortal soul’s remnant,
and no one to ever penchant.
And not a mortal soul to cry
for the departed soul’s goodbye.

There are so many other tales to tell,
of women living in virtual hell,
trying to fight against mockery
of their fragile feminity.
So many tales of lives pathetic,
options are many, which to pick?