Before we go in to the poem, let me tell you, this is a rewritten version of the previous one. I feel like I have made it better...Tell me what you think!
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Only soft whispers
of the once boisterous were heard,
like buzzing flies,
never echoing; not worthy,
when she was kept at stake,
to heal the wounded ego of a man.
With the Devil on the shoulders,
an open ear to his whispers,
the men watched in silence,
as she was dragged,
along the floor of the assembly,
by her hair,
her feet kicking, fingers clawing.
In the court of the greatest warriors,
her cries echoed,
her pleas as a Queen,
a Sister, a Woman.
But the undertone voice of the Devil,
was closer and sweeter to their ears.
They kept their heads bowed,
too afraid to gaze
into her scorching eyes.
Ashamed to face her charges against their silence.
Where were the weapons,
they took much pride in,
when the dark hands moved
from her locks to her cloth?
Disappointed, desperate,
realization dawning, she prayed.
She prayed to Vasudev,
until only her lips moved,
and her voice was a whisper
from a hoarse throat.
He had spoken up,
whose voice had spoken for all the hushed.
He had raised a hand,
a hand that had concealed her,
from the eyes of prying vultures.
A voice, a hand, I wish for all the women
in this moving hell.
A voice of comfort
for the terrified girl,
alone, in a room full of men.
A voice to the one,
who peeked back with doubtful eyes,
only to walk faster with fearful ones.
But no longer will the naari
watch from the floor,
with tearstained cheeks.
No. She will rise.
She will rise to drench her hands
in her defiler's blood,
run them through her mane,
and knot it high upon her head.
To the silent, the idle I say,
when you choose to be mute,
you will hear whispers,
whispers of the demon.
And when you hear it long enough,
it's words will echo, louder, through you.
When you avert your eyes
from the distressed,
your gaze will fall upon
the eye of the fiend.
Look long into its eyes,
and see your reflection
staring back at you with dread,
and realize,
you were simply a prey
caught in the spider's web.
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Hey guys,
So this was just a rewriting of the poem in the previous chapter.
Which do you think is better? Why? Tell me in the comments!
If you like the poem, don't forget to vote!
Add the book to your reading list, give me a follow or just drop me a message! I love all kinds of support.
-Ebonylarch
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Caught in a spider's web?
PoetryTo be a bystander is almost as bad as being the oppressor. This poem features a scene from an Indian epic which illustrates this. # 10 speakup # 1 speakingup (25/7/20) # 58 injustice
