In the night, they didn’t care about
All her dresses they tore.
In the morning, they call her names:
Slut, bitch and whore.
She was an object
Of concupiscence and pleasure.
If not for her curves and bust,
Would she be treasured?
She was alive,
Yet dead.
Unlike the men in her army
Who as soon as captured
Were beheaded,
She was locked up in a golden cage,
Touched by all,
Wore long gowns of silk
But was a mere rag doll.
Vaishnavi Sathish is yet to finish her schooling but has a flair for literature and fine arts. She lives in Pondicherry and has recently published a maiden collection of 39 of her poems under the title Sunflowers of the Dark.
ashokbhatia 