Crime of parents or destiny of her own;

she was alone, at such a tender age.

Mother divine, people says;

out of love and care, moms are made.

She doesn’t remember her face or touch.

Damned freedom, that her mother boasted.

For her love, she broke her heart.

Father is what a daughter is proud of.

Someone a child much likely, admire of.

Such a poor soul, I disclaim.

Whose father left, his own life to claim.

Another daughter, another family,

“She was nothing!”, her father would blame!

Tiny fingers, she could hold toys,

At such stage, she learnt switching stoves.

A dull frock, with left out clothes.Her aunt would stitch a birthday gown.

She cared not for, how it was made?As full day ,she will adore that dress.

Such an early age, It’s gloomy, to say “Aye!”, always.

Tears rolling, down her cheeks;wiping which she will end her day.

Every time I visit that place.

She will hug: me and toys.

She will be with me: for days and night;

listening stories, tales i can tell.

In this deep dark, soundless night,

There may be questions, much to cause noise.

Who is at fault, whose mistake?

Who will be the jury and who at stake?

For such a tiny plant, who will grow shade?

who will nourish, who will love this plant?