• Antara Basu


The red amidst her legs,

Taints the sheets with chaste.

For them to revel.

But the same red amidst her legs,

Is the red that daunts them,

Each lunar moon.

The stain of womanhood,

Burdens them, more than it does her.

The mark sullied her red,

Her touch, the goddess was defiled.

Her shadows evaded,

Shunned within the dark.

For the bread, she bakes,

Is rotten not in taste, nor in sight

Neither in scent,

But in their mind.

The wood that burns for the holy,

Is the same that absorbs her blood.

Yet the water washed off her body,

Drowns in a river of disgrace.

The desecrated womb,

Births the echoes of agony.

The walls that collapsed speak to her,

Of the fallen lives.

The red amidst her legs,

Bleeds in different shades.

In red.