In the Court of Roosters

-



 

In the court of law where patriarchy reigns,

A woman walks, with fire behind her eyes.

Bound by silence, unseen by the day,

Bartered in shadows, then cast away.


Like a cockroach beneath a rooster’s strut,

She crawls where justice keeps its eyelids shut.

Her truth is danger, her plea a stain,

Dismissed not by law, but contempt and disdain.


The halls of safety — crumbling, cold,

Where justice once stood, now bought and sold.

The gavel's echo mocks her pain,

A rhythm of loss, again and again.


She cries for help, but the air stays still,

The gods don't listen; fate bends to will.

A flare in the dark, swallowed by night,

Her signal extinguished, denied of light.


Marked by flames no eye will see,

She stands in scorched invisibility.

Yet through the ash beneath her feet,

A pulse begins — defiant, discreet.


A root, a spark, a quiet claim,

A vow not buried by sorrow or shame.

She speaks — though the world averts its ear,

And in her whisper, justice draws near.



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Nostalgia’s Embrace

-
Image
  In the monsoon’s gentle embrace, My parents toiled with humble grace— Wage laborers in the rain’s cool breath, Facing life’s storms, defying death. Sleeping on dung and jute-laid floors, We dreamed beneath the thunder's roar. Raindrops slipped through roof and seam, Falling in bowls—white drops that gleamed. Their rhythm still plays in my ears, A lullaby of youthful years. Mornings broke with cofee husk-brewed coffee, No beans—just memory shining through. Boiled kappa, rice with roasted  redchillies, Simple meals, yet rich and sweet. Clad in a tunic, plain and long, Washed in the river’s bubbling song. No school bag—just a plasticbag grip, Holding hope on each small trip. Umbrellas made of reed and leaf, Tattered shields against the grief— Taro and banana, dry and torn, Kept us safe from rain and scorn. Through mountain paths and streams we’d tread, With soaked books and dreams we led. Teachers' hands, both firm and kind, Shaped our hearts and opened minds. Radio songs from ...
Read more

The Fire That Never Fades

-
Image
    A Poem for India’s Independence Day-2025 From dust of time and sages' flame, A voice arose — not loud, but name. Not carved in swords, nor ruled by crown, But born of truth where souls don't drown. She walked through fire, yet did not fall, In chains, her spirit stood ten tall. They came with war, with cross and greed, But could not break her sacred seed. A farmer bowed beneath the sun, But bore the strength of everyone. A mother wept, yet in her eyes, The Ganga flowed, the phoenix flies. Her children, taken, sold, betrayed, Yet deeper still, the Self she made. Not built on gold, nor market’s lie, But starlit chants beneath the sky. The Gita's call, the Buddha's peace, The saints who danced, the flames that cease — All whisper still, through storm and dust, “Be fearless now, in truth, in trust.” So when they wrote her name in chains, She answered not with hate or blame. She rose in silence, soul ablaze, A thousand suns within her gaze. Not empire’s thirst, nor conqu...
Read more

The Digital Siren: A Warning in Orange

-
Image
  In a world of screens that blink and glow, Where children watch and learn and grow, A cat appears—its fur flame-bright— But hides a shadow out of sight. It laughs and tricks with toothy grin, Then pulls its prey with joyless sin. It drinks, it lures, it strikes with glee, Pretending it's just comedy. But young eyes watch and young hearts learn, From every swipe and every turn. One child played with pen as knife, Not knowing he was copying strife. What seems like fun, what seems a game, Can light in minds a cruel flame. A giggle now, a stab next day— The line between begins to fray. So parents, teachers—please beware, Of digital masks your children wear. Turn on the guards, watch what they view, And speak of kindness strong and true. For screens can teach, but they can scar, And shape the children that we are. The orange cat may charm and trend, But not all tales are fit to send. Let stories lift, not darkly twist— Let empathy, not pain, persist. And if you see that spark of frigh...
Read more

Taxed by God, Robbed by Men

-
Image
  They speak with silver tongues, draped in flags and faith, Promising justice, peace — or a righteous wraith. But behind their eyes lie truths deformed, Sharpened into blades, perfectly formed. They call it holy, they call it just, But all it hides is greed and dust. A war of faith? A war for peace? No — it's a war where mercy finds no lease. Violence, their anthem; war, their creed, Feeding on ignorance, power, and greed. They forge their weapons in rooms of gold, While outside, the young and poor grow old. Truth lies bleeding beneath their boots, As they march with chants and twisted roots. History bends to fit their mold, And stories are sold, bought, and retold. They shout of borders, of sacred land, With trembling rage and trembling hands. But what they guard is not soul or sky — It’s the illusion of control, wrapped in a lie. Not God, but gold they serve with pride, Not truth, but power stands at their side. They twist the prayers, distort the lore, Till love becomes a tool ...
Read more

From Tender Sprout to Withered Fall

-
Image
  Born on the branch, a tender sprout so new, Unfurling soft, like silk laced with morning dew. With dreams untold, in vibrant green it gleamed, Like a lantern of hope, where innocence streamed. Then youthful vigor, in emerald hues unfurled, It danced with winds like a ribbon gently twirled. Each summer's sun, a story etched within, Like carvings on bark, where bold hearts begin. When older kin, in faded gold, let go, And softly tumbled to the earth below, The vibrant green would mock with youthful glee, Unknowing then, its own fate soon would be. As autumn whispers, a golden blush appeared, Like twilight’s glow when daylight's edge is near. The vibrant green to burnished ochre turned, Like aged parchment, where life’s truths are learned. At last, a withered curl, a brittle, silent plea, The branch released — like a sigh — wild and free. A gentle fall to earth, its journey done, A kariyila now, beneath the fading sun. To earth it returns, a cycle to renew, Like ashes to roots t...
Read more

The Center

-
Image
  I walk a path that’s mine alone, A throne of wants, a heart of stone. The world, it spins around my name, And others play a fleeting game. Your needs are whispers in the air, Mine roar like fire—bold, unfair. I take, I claim, I push, I pull, Empathy? A concept dull. Your praise is never quite enough, My light is bright, your glow is bluff. I talk, you listen—such is fate, I lead, I rule, I dominate. Critique me once, I strike with fire, Your words mean less than my desire. Anger flares when I don’t win, As if your doubt’s some kind of sin. I build myself from borrowed gold, And shine in stories I’ve retold. The mirror loves the face it sees, And bows beneath my self-made breeze. So call me proud or say I’m blind, But I was never made to mind The quiet needs of those like you— The world feels right from my own view.
Read more

The Way I Love Her

-
Image
  She moves like dusk unwinding, a breath of warmth on summer's skin. Not perfume — no bottled bloom — but the raw, soft scent of her, salt and sun and sleep and soul. It clings to me in the quiet, a hunger hidden in air itself. I follow that scent like a prayer follows silence, like fire follows the fuse. My gaze undresses what cloth cannot hide — the language her body speaks in gooseflesh and glances. I touch her not to possess, but to understand — to read the hymn of her skin with the reverence of a monk and the ache of a man. My fingers are stories, tracing poems along her shoulder, dipping into the hollow of her waist, pausing — not out of doubt, but devotion. Each kiss is a slow sentence that says, “I see you. I want you.” She shivers — not from cold, but from being known. Her breath catches, my lips find the soft of her neck, and the world melts away into a rhythm older than names. No words — just hands, just mouths, just the music of skin a...
Read more

My Soul's Flight in Bharat

-
Image
  In Bharat's embrace, my soul takes flight, Where earthly desires lose their might. I was born 'neath skies of ancient lore, With a yearning deep, forevermore. For in this land, a sacred ground, I hear spirituality's sweet sound. A whispered prayer, a fervent plea, To join the vast eternity. Sometimes I feel a god, a son divine, A spark of light, eternally mine. Connected threads, a cosmic weave, Where I and all, we truly believe. I am a part of all, a part of one, Within the universal sun. No earthly wish, no worldly plea, Just boundless peace, eternally. From mountains high to rivers deep, A spiritual truth, secrets I keep. In Bharat's heart, my soul takes flight, Forever bound to sacred light. Through peaceful, divine places, haunting and deep, Where ancient secrets forever sleep. Thousands of my souls, in silence reside, In every corner, they patiently hide. They don't wish to connect to the outer world, Their timeless wisdom, forever unfurled. Every land on Ea...
Read more

Scars Like Petals

-
Image
"I pray now that this never happens to anyone." Let this never happen— not to a mother, not to a child, not to any soul walking this fragile earth. let no breast be robbed of the milk meant for lullabies. May no woman have to kiss death gently just to survive another day. Let her smile be untouched, her hair unfallen, her heartbeat free from fear. I ask for no miracles, only mercy— a quiet shield between sorrow and those who love too deeply to lose. This is my prayer— not for me alone, but for every life that deserves to bloom without pain. Let no pain take root where love was meant to flow, They told her one morning, in a sterile room, too bright— "It’s cancer," they said, and the world dimmed to night. Her hands, once full of lullabies, now clenched in silent fight, the mirror showed a stranger's chest, but not her spirit’s light. Where milk should flow, my breast now holds, instead of life-giving white, dark, knotty lumps of pain. Locks of hair li...
Read more

A Testament to the Storm

-
Image
  The wind, a beast unleashed and wild, Tore through the trees, a mournful child. The sky, a canvas, dark and grim, A testament to nature's whim. The rain, a deluge, fierce and fast, Beat down on earth, a watery blast. The thunder roared, a deafening sound, As lightning flashed, a fiery crown. The river swelled, a raging tide, Its waters surged, with fear inside. The ancient teak, with roots so deep, Bent low, yet held, while secrets sleep. The fragile flowers, crushed and torn, Their beauty lost, a life forlorn. The birds took flight, a frightened flock, To seek a haven, safe and rock. You raised waves, once calm and small, Now towering, vast, beyond recall. You extinguished streetlights’ fragile thread, The veins of power we had bred. You broke the building I called home, Beat me with rain and sky's dark foam. The sun gave you strength. The moon showed the way. You ruled the night. You stole the day. But in the chaos, strength arose— A silent witness as the storm imposed. Whe...
Read more