An evocative poem about the agony, shame and a prayer of a girl, in this woman-centric poem, by Lipsa, exclusively for Different Truths.
They raped her daily;
Daily robbed her of her innocence.
When the senescent day,
Rocking in an ancient teakwood chair,
Stared into the vacant vision
Of yet another death,
She ran from one room to another:
Frantic, like a madwoman,
Looking desperately for a corner
That would fold her in its arm,
Kiss her wild hair
And promise her
She will be okay.
Promises are never kept;
She knew she would be betrayed,
Still she yielded,
Clutching as tight as she could
One frail string of hope.
Hope was all she had:
Hope that the iridescent Krishna
Would one day descend
And stand guard of her womanhood –
Her being –
Against the lust-drenched hands
Of these savage souls here;
And if not,
Carry in His arms, her soul
Through the gates of Heaven.
This wasn’t that day, though:
Krishna must have been otherwise engaged,
Because under the dark of night
She was raped,
Robbed a bit more of her innocence
Just like every day past.
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