Her Political Poem

Her Honour

The bed was wet

her pillow wept

the room groaned

when she roared,

in the dense dark

she was merely a lark.

When She was broken

the dawn too broke.

What they said-

“It was his right

as it was his night.”

She carved her honour

from the grave of that bed.

And that transformed her core-

I am not a victim

I won't sell my story,

at the cost of societal sympathy

I won't be another Indian bride

I won't be a bait to the family's pride.

She pulled her hair

chopped it down

she transferred the burden of her ring

to "his society” which stings.

They kept saying it was his right.

There she killed her plight,

And took her flight.

                                     -Preeti