She kneeled, fragile, frowning with a fearful face, with clenching, silvered teeth reflecting the ravaged past and the seemingly future in further agony.
She stared up at you with gleaming eyes, cheek obscured by the blood of tears. But look, you tear her because you lack sympathy—you insist it is expected that she should own fear if she dares to live; if her life matters.
Days are nights and dreams are dreaded as the peaceful pigeon still screams, after being dispossessed of her voice, for you are violent with no love. You give her slashes and pounces, she smiles but the less she will be silenced. The less she will condone or feign painful comfort. The less she owns the old routine, own as hers if she dares to live, the less her life will wince in smashed pieces as if the world betrayed her and hired her murderer.
The wild erstwhile past must pass. The dawn of the presence may beget peace. The wind must blow anew, the land must merit her with mirth, all bitter hearts must embrace empathy, the warded minds of male violence must marshal obedience, and out of many men will rise mentored allies—at last, humankind will live in calmness, hiccups will give way to a breath of fresh air. The broken bones are to be fastened and the wounded world shall turn round in rebirth.
11 January, 2023
