Deadline to submit your poems has been extended to February 28th.


shobha chichra

She was brutally killed by the power game.
She still had blood stains on her bruised frame.
Violently, his stony fingers crawled on her entire
body and poisoned her privacy.
Her wailing and shrieking died out amidst his devilish
laugh. Terror gripped her tightly and no longer did she
liberate herself from the clutches of the wild beast
disguised as human. Barely at the tender age of eight,
even mother earth sensed the sweet fragrance of her
Innocent, simple and jolly nature.
Trembling and stumbling, somehow she reached
home, fell on the floor like a corpse- pale, dejected and
worn out. Fainted and paralyzed, in hallucinations she muttered
for hours and hours …
Her mother, poverty stricken, heavily burdened,
Hardly could she decipher her plight.
Regaining some sensations, she lost her power of speech.
With scary and hateful eyes, she was just gazing
in the void open sky and feeling guilty and shame.
And nothing could efface the dreadful agonies engraved
on her wounded soul. Worried mother called a doctor,
with half closed eyes ,she was obsessed ,while stethoscope
On her chest…. another monster….. horrific scene ....gasped her last breath and
She was no more.
It is neither a story nor breaking news
To be highlighted on the social media, not even
a showbiz, but a reality of many budding blooms,
the victims of power game, every now and then,
in remote areas or every nook and corner of the world .
And their shrouded silences imprisoned in grave for ages and ages
Would ever be erupted ?
like burning lava of volcanoes, with deafening uproar
Echoing in the cosmos,
to awaken the deep slumber of the
Disfigured humanity.

Leave a comment