The Longing.

The chapped lips told it all,

The scars on her face,

Fresh, and Sore.


Waiting to break free,

From the shackles,

Of labour, of hatred,

Of stereotypes, terribly scathed.


There is the thought of a dawn,

A dawn where,

She sets her own goals,

Sets right her own place,

Not in the kitchen,

And not at the hands of her betrothed.


A place, where she

has command,

Over her voice,

Her charisma,

Her soul.


But alas, the burden on her mind is such,

That the frown is omnipresent,

Much like the Devil’s,

Unlike the Revenant’s.


And The Longing is such,

It yearns for attention.

But the thought’s too much,

And hence it withers away,

With not even a tiny mention.


-Anirudh Bhagavatula.

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