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The Silent Storm



A confession by pregnant prostitute, on aborting her unborn daughter (female foeticide)



I fought a battle,
To find some earth
For you to flower,
Of blossom and Spring I dreamt
Feeling your tender seedlings

Wounds, blood and Abuse
With a piece of ground I got
On a cracked soil
And sweat to water
A dry abandoned stem with no soul
No color, no vigor
Why should you grow?

Yes, I chose for
That brutal storm efface you forever
To let you bloom as the beautiful,
Only in my dreams to ponder
Murdered with tears,
By your own mother

© Meenakshi M Singh
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