June, 2017

Featured Submissions

She can dance, she does prance.

Illustrated by Ishita Srivastava.

She can dance, she does prance.
She might sing, can fight unbelievably with a lance.

She sleeps still to cradle songs.
On her awakening, the oscillating watch makes another dong.

A deadly history, of which she wasn’t unknown of –
Covered skin, as if marred and bruised thereof.
Wrecked was she – what her antiquity got her as a gift,
Crying the forerunner for fighting against this charred contorted rift.

Their saturated antipathy brought her down,
She saw herself in the mirror, standing on the ground.
And taught the little harbinger how it goes,
The world is grotty, I suppose.

She walked like no river flowed in her path,
As if, in a jolt, bullseye was the destination of the dart.
Then she held the racquet which she was not supposed to hold,
And beaded off hardwork in the cold.

Thousands saw her as an ideal figure,
The figure under the spotlight – optimistically hoped to be in vigour.
Fight was real, they did understand,
But the demurral against the misogynist was never planned.

But still she rose like dry leaves,
Nature was the driving force of her dynamic deeds.
And as the wind carried her,
She twirled and twisted, being pleased.

Not an unwashed tale was being told,
Unboxed she was, and bold.
And now in time as she grew old,
She would be a revolutionary, as the story would unfold.

A mother, a sister, a juxtaposition to an idle man,
She is a woman, not unhinged as much as the history planned.
A paradox, a tragedy you did not see arriving,
A lioness to rescue the future, is rising.

By guest author:

Shivika Singh

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