Going for an auction
Tell me, tell me friends...
Which one do you prefer?
Chick or Cock, Cow or Bull,
Oxen or Bovine, She goat or Billy?

She's are always tender.
Thinking about the progeny,
Do what oneself prefer?
Or what one do opt?
If given a chance?

Are women a machine?
Or women a factory?
Making only laddies.
She's like a guardian angel.

Rarely, hardly mother's assisted
Abetted crime, somewhere.
  
A baby girl killed at birth,
By dipping into the holy milk,
A tiny rice grain into the throat,
A local midwife-assisted help.

Oh, bruises and wounds,
Brutally thrashed marks,
All over the tiny body.
As a mute spectator,
Stood the hapless mother.

Oh, to get rid of the burden,
Burden of rearing the girl child.
Life in her home, feels
Like a stolen property,
Affiliated to somewhere else.

Marked, as a daughter of someone,
Wife of someone,
Mother of someone,
Always under the shadow,
Of that crisis of identity.

Before aware of oneself,
Married away she's.
Thrown out to the mercy of
Someone's whims and fancies.

Hanker after,
An object of pleasure,
An unpaid servant.
Burst into tears, seldom,
Declared mad she's.

Now, better to act as dumb and mute’
Once left the stately home,
Hey, journey of return laborious,
Inadmissible too..

Whomever raise a storm,
Against those atrocities?
To reach the Law?
Oh, poor soul,
Awaiting a long, tedious voyage.
Hyphens and question marks,
Making one a fool.

Baby girls, they're flowers,
Forever in bloom.
A definition of perfect love,
And a hub of favour.
 
Love her, adorn her.
Educate her and protect H E R. 

A poem by K. Syamala

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