यतो धर्मस्ततो जयः॥
Dressed in the scorch of a glorious mid-afternoon July.
I feel a stroke of rain caress me over, loosening my skirt.
Perhaps it was the gods, smiling upon bread,
Of the lonely farmer with three daughters to wed.
I looked down at my skirt, stained in red.
The wrath of her eyes I mistook for rain.
Astraea cries red as into Araria’s soil she bled.
The voice that cried for the wings of justice,
Turned cacophonies serenading the smoldering quills.
I looked down at my skirt, stained in black.
Hands that were strewn beneath the pillars that sang.
Where there is righteousness, there is victory.
Yet, victory hid its face behind a veil sewn of shame.
Her indignity is worth less than the dignity of contempt.
I looked down at my skirt, torn in half.