Nubivagant │✔

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Head lying on the dusty old pages,

Quill clenched by cold bony fingers.

Her mind at rest after working for ages,

Was the prelude of a memory that still lingers.

The oak wood door slammed open,

Rays lighting up the dark room.

No words needed to be spoken,

As her sight made the intruder fume.

Dragging her by her black locks,

Striding through the hallways.

Spectators gathered in flocks,

Among whom, the women could only gaze.

She was pushed to the marble floor,

Blood making its way down her nose.

Knowing it was more than she could endure,

Yet none stood up to stop his blows.

Betrayed by her own,

She stood up this time.

All alone,

She showed that her worth stood above few dimes.

All she asked was to be taught the art of writing,

And that's no mistake rather her right.

Throughout the yard the sound of her slap ringed,

Determined she won't go without a fight.

Eyes laced with fury was he,

As he freed her from her invisible chains.

Sprawled on the ground was she,

Hands tinted with blood stains.

As the red oozed out,

She lay.

As the spots danced about,

Death met her on the way.

She was one of the many casualties,

Of the act in which a woman was killed or mauled.

Surprisingly, the victims were never pitied,

'Honour Killing' it was called.

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