I.
Abandoned under cover
of smoggy moonbeams and shadows
under a stinking suburban culvert
on a drizzling summer night:
a new-born, with no swaddling clothes.
Inaudible squeals lost among stridulating crickets.
Next day, she made it into tiny columns
in local news papers, nay,
what was left of her by
scavenging nocturnal predators:
the nomadic mother reportedly missing.
Found in rude encasing
in a crowded public carriage:
another three days’ old, stilled at birth
with no maternal tear.
She too would hit columns.
Statistics, staggering figures:
what befell those conceived before
sends a chill in every female seed.
An awful line of butchers waiting
to catch first inkling of her life
turning womb to her sepulcher.
II.
They shall turn up one day-
All those fetal female kids
choked within in prime!
I see them swarming villages
suburbs cities capitals hospital
waiting rooms garbage heaps
beauty parlors, and, you name it,
dripping blood and puss, drooping
limbs half-formed, half-eaten in
fetus feast for stray dogs.
They would inquire of each and sundry
on how they earned their fate.
They would question Him, who,
on a playful second round,
carved his first artefact’s rib
into a fragile fairy
thriving only in his colossal shade:
why she was burdened with
luring him into hot sun.
They would question those law-givers,
eager to oblige patriarchal pride,
cited tradition and decreed her
servility from womb to tomb.
They knew the game, deified her,
sealed her under divine silence.
They would question inspired redeemers
who, saving her from burial alive,
still buried her alive in systems
run by men, in lands of sandstorms.
A game given façade of protection
to procure servility under the veil.
III.
They wouldn’t spare-
those cloistered masters, loathing
her freedom, demonized and hounded
her unto the stake;
those elders wielding power
decreed her doom in the name of honor;
those refined poets
humoring battle of the sexes
failed not to find fault with her.
They shall definitely burn your siesta
pelting wrath of the unborn
in fiery storms of dementing curses
no generations to come would escape.
They shall surely have their day when,
alien wombs you hire for your seed
refuse to simulate your fathers,
begetting offsprings you can’t claim.
Abandoned under cover
of smoggy moonbeams and shadows
under a stinking suburban culvert
on a drizzling summer night:
a new-born, with no swaddling clothes.
Inaudible squeals lost among stridulating crickets.
Next day, she made it into tiny columns
in local news papers, nay,
what was left of her by
scavenging nocturnal predators:
the nomadic mother reportedly missing.
Found in rude encasing
in a crowded public carriage:
another three days’ old, stilled at birth
with no maternal tear.
She too would hit columns.
Statistics, staggering figures:
what befell those conceived before
sends a chill in every female seed.
An awful line of butchers waiting
to catch first inkling of her life
turning womb to her sepulcher.
II.
They shall turn up one day-
All those fetal female kids
choked within in prime!
I see them swarming villages
suburbs cities capitals hospital
waiting rooms garbage heaps
beauty parlors, and, you name it,
dripping blood and puss, drooping
limbs half-formed, half-eaten in
fetus feast for stray dogs.
They would inquire of each and sundry
on how they earned their fate.
They would question Him, who,
on a playful second round,
carved his first artefact’s rib
into a fragile fairy
thriving only in his colossal shade:
why she was burdened with
luring him into hot sun.
They would question those law-givers,
eager to oblige patriarchal pride,
cited tradition and decreed her
servility from womb to tomb.
They knew the game, deified her,
sealed her under divine silence.
They would question inspired redeemers
who, saving her from burial alive,
still buried her alive in systems
run by men, in lands of sandstorms.
A game given façade of protection
to procure servility under the veil.
III.
They wouldn’t spare-
those cloistered masters, loathing
her freedom, demonized and hounded
her unto the stake;
those elders wielding power
decreed her doom in the name of honor;
those refined poets
humoring battle of the sexes
failed not to find fault with her.
They shall definitely burn your siesta
pelting wrath of the unborn
in fiery storms of dementing curses
no generations to come would escape.
They shall surely have their day when,
alien wombs you hire for your seed
refuse to simulate your fathers,
begetting offsprings you can’t claim.
