Walking through the street

In a village under the hills and the clouds

In a gray black evening

I heard her crying, muttering,

Mourning over something

Nobody listened to

The whisper of

Her silent complaint

Her frail stature.

 

She came again

Another day

Her hands gripped

A paper,

Written on some advice

She follows that paper says

She appeals

Through her pain

Knocked door to door

Her wounds and stain

Seeking judgment

All in vain

One says she is mad

Another,

She weaves story

Nothing truth, all cloudy.

 

Surprised my eyes

Could watch

People escape

No support, blaming her instead

She was dragged

Into a court, every day on streets

They never felt

Truth needs no witness

Truth is truth

Clearly visible

In her heart, her throat

Dried her hands, and shedding skin

Her dirty, stained clothes

Blood afresh on forehead strip

What is not true?

Is it her trust?

Trust on her community,

Or on these people?

The people she trusted and cared for long?

Is it her trust on the streets she married to?

 

A woman in a village

When gets old and alone

She never has one to think

To give and take

To speak and listen

To hold and hug

To sit and walk with

To cry and laugh with

To cool and warm

To share and care

To just to live or to die with

Nobody is concerned,

If she dies.

Yet more are concerned

Why she lives?