• Antara Basu

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.



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